


Of Crimson Days

by TheMajesticKaramel



Category: Naruto
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anger, Character Death, Character Development, Cheating, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Genocide, Gentle Sex, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hate to Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Itachi is heir to the throne, Knights - Freeform, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Trust, Loss of Virginity, Lots and Lots of Death, M/M, Minato is alive, Murder, NO ACTUAL DESCRIPTIONS OF RAPE, NaruSasu Bromance, Naruto is a Knight, Naruto is a Namikaze, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Original Characters - Freeform, People Change People, Poverty, Revolt, Revolution, Rough Sex, Sakura is a villager, Sakura is damaged, Sex, Uchiha as royalty, minato is also a night, taverns and inns and all that goodness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-01-17 00:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 70,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12353664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMajesticKaramel/pseuds/TheMajesticKaramel
Summary: She isn't of aristocratic blood.She's laboured and she's struggled, sometimes clothed in only a rag, but she is, at least, a survivor—A survivor of poverty, of loss, of this man-eat-man world.She may not sleep in silk tonight, but at least she'll open those wise eyes when morning comes.At least, when it all ends, she'll live to tell the tale of how she survived those Crimson Days.





	1. The Chartreuse of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers!
> 
> I don't like to write stories with darker themes but I fell in love with this concept. I haven't seen many sort of works with a medieval touch to it, at least in this fandom, and thought I'd give it a try myself. Now, I'm no expert on such a genre and obviously this is a work of fiction and will not be historically accurate, but I would like you bear that in mind as you read this prologue and if you decide to continue reading it- The themes in this may be crude, may be regressive and may be a tad on the conservative, traditional side at times, but this is A). a different world and B). a long time ago in the past.
> 
> I'm sure a lot of you are thinking that I don't really need to preface that, but I like to serve out my intentions on a silver platter, just to make sure we're all on the same page. If you don't like this, the prologue, then please do leave any criticisms before you decide to give up, I will not be the slightest bit offended :)
> 
> Also, please do consider character-development is to be implemented throughout, and so although some things might seem a bit all over the place in this now, I will be working on this to ensure something that I can proud of ;)
> 
> Not really going to write too much more other than a few details, but I am TheMajesticKaramel (you can call me Karamel or anything you want really, though ;D) and I like cats and hot chocolate and soft blankets, I'm a bit of a socialist and a strong believer of equality but I'm not going to say more on that as such tend to be controversial topics. I live in the UK and so some of you might find my spelling or phrasing a bit weird, and I honestly hate tea (sorry my not-so-fellow avid tea-drinkers). I typo a lot and can barely formulate a comprehensible sentence, but I hope you'll stay for the irregular updates and the extended period of writers' block ;)

 

_“Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a great king- He was kind and brave, stronger than any other man in the kingdom, and he protected his subjects with his own life. One day, the king met a woman and fell in love, entranced by her beauty, and, soon enough, a princess was born. The people of the kingdom rejoiced day and night for a whole seven days, for everyone had fallen in love with the princess and her gorgeous night-sky eyes, and the king had never been happier._

_"But then, on the seventh night of the seventh day, something terrible happened- Whilst the king slept peacefully in his bed, his own wife had plotted against him and taken his life. On the eighth day, the kingdom had awoken to a castle without a king._

_"Now, everybody knows that a kingdom cannot be a kingdom without a king, and so, on the eighth night, the queen announced her betrothal to a man with night-sky eyes. She feigned heartbreak and mourning, but the woman had only ever loved one man- The man with night-sky eyes._

_"For the people were in chaos over their king's death, they accepted the new king and honoured his coronation, never quite piecing together that the princess' night-sky eyes certainly did not come from the late kin-"_

_"Hanako! That is not the story you should be reading to your sister!" A woman with dusty locks reprimanded, her villager dress hanging from her round body in a fashion that certainly did not flatter, "She is only little!"_

_"Oh please, I knew 'bout this stuff when I was 'bout six," The alleged Hanako had sniggered back, candlelight illuminating her lustrous tresses into an elegant rose gold- She had beauty that clearly came not from her mother, "Sakura can 'andle it,"_

_"Yeah!" The youngest girl in the dimly lit room cheered in her high, childlike voice, though oblivious to the reasoning behind her mother's skepticality, "I can handle it!"_

_Scoffing, the pair's mother folded a white tea-towel in pardon, not stubborn enough to continue her eldest's charade- For she'd never win, especially not against the brashness of Hanako Haruno. When it came to her littlest child and her heart, the parent couldn't even begin to compete with her twelve-year-old daughter; her children had a bond that filled her chest with a warmth that was envied by even the blazing heat of summer, inseparable and close-knitted beyond comprehension._

_Only, it mattered not how fiery her body felt at the sight of her two daughters, or how vivid the smile she crafted was, for the alabaster storms of winter were merciless. They lived in a small, non-insulating cottage at the edge of a vast forest, isolated from foreign company, that had been built with timbers too thin for the climate of their land. It contained two rooms- which was luxurious for many, the family knew- although one could only hold a single bed, and the other, simply a slightly larger bed and an arrangement of stoves and half-broken pantries. At seven years of age, Sakura Haruno had only stepped out from its clasps once._

_"How many times must I remind you, Hanako, to not speak so informally?" The girl's mother had hissed, shortly accompanied by an exasperated sigh, "You will never find a groom if you continue, darling,"_

_"Pa said I could say what I want, how I want," The sister shrugged, carelessly, "Oh yeah, when's he even comin' home? I miss him lots,"_

_The silence that followed meant nothing to Sakura, but it meant everything to her older sister; she only realised why when it was far too late, years later, though, when her sister was long gone, just as her father had been._

_After a minute had passed, their mother, who was admittedly a very short and plump woman, had began to boil a pot of tea. It finished the remainder of their tea leaves, and they'd probably never come into possession of them ever again, but Mebuki Haruno had never been one to admit to their poverty. Hanako could see it in her eyes- She was ashamed, embarrassed that she'd married a farmer's son and not one of the lords._

_Class meant nothing to the twelve-year-old, though- She did not care if she had to skip a few meals or own only a single dress and no shoes, she loved her father. She also loved their little cottage, despite the iciness she felt as dusk pulled the sky into its coarse embrace. Even with the words she'd been shamed with, she felt pride in being able to say that she was a Haruno and that she was her father's daughter._

_"You should get t'a sleep, Sak," The golden-haired girl kissed a tiny temple, stroking locks that felt like silk in her palms, "Who knows how long you'll be able t'a sleep in that bed?"_

_She also loved her little sister, even more than she did her father. She loved the huge grin that the seven-year-old would show off without a care in the world, she loved the beautiful shades of coral her hair effortlessly flowed, she loved the brilliance of her emerald-jewel eyes; She loved her sister's giggle, and she loved her sister's sweet voice and gleaming personality, and she certainly loved her childlike naivety and uncompromised innocence. There was nothing she didn't love about her sister, actually._

_"But I'm not tired, sis!" Sakura only whined in response, voice as loud and as full-of-energy as it consistently was._

_"Shhhh," The delicacy she exuberated was one that she held for her sibling alone, "You shouldn't speak like that. You're a lady, ain't ya?"_

_"But you don-"_

_"But I'm not like you, Sak. You're gonn'a get out'ta here, marry a lord and birth an heir or somethin'. You're gonn'a be pretty enough, that's for sure- Not like Ma, not like me," Hanako offered a kind smile, distant yet melancholy in some manner that the little girl remained oblivious to, "Promise me ya will, Sak, yeah? That you'll get out'ta here?"_

_"But you're so pretty, sis," She insisted in response, stubborn in that Haruno way- Like their father._

_In her shamrock gaze, the twelve-year-old was breath-taking; Her eyes were a deep blue, a shade that Sakura believed was unfair on a person. She wanted to steal their colour and learn how to paint the night sky with it, and, if she'd never witness the aggressive waves of a sea, she believed she wouldn't be saddened, for when her sister's eyes shut, it was as though a pair of curtains were being drawn over a magnificent castle-view of the ocean._

_Her locks were spun on Rumpelstiltskin's spinning wheel, from the pages of the fairytales that she read to Sakura, golden and wavy in a way she already envied at her age, and the age of her older sister was only a number against the curve of her waist that was more prominent than their Ma's; she was tall too, slender yet somehow warm-blooded, with a heat that brings feeling back to her fingers during the colder seasons._

_"Oh, Sakura," Hanako laughed warmly, her fingers brushing through the knotted strands of cherry-blossom pink, "I'm a bit o'va tomboy, which ain't ever good, so don't be like me, yeah? Get married, don't be held on love or anythin' like that. Look at Ma, she ain't happy and she married Pa- Love ain't timeless,"_

_Although she wasn't really comprehending a word her sister uttered, the innocent gleam in her forest eyes dulled just that little bit, "Like how the queen didn't love the king, in the story?"_

_"Exactly," The blonde chuckled, despite her bitterness, "Exactly, Sak,"_

* * *

A white-cloaked figure collides with a large man wearing facial hair down to his chest, to match the brown leather he has over a stained, white shirt. The butcher, from what onlookers can perceive, immediately grunts in protest, his gruff voice bellowing out after the still-running figure. The boy, aged around seventeen, doesn't dare to look back, already tardy to what is probably the most important event of his life.

Unbeknownst to him, his shoulder brushes against a woman also aged seventeen, the pastel locks of her hair hidden beneath a black hood and her viridescent orbs turned down to the street cobble; She's unaffected by his clumsy swaying, bored waiting for her mother out in the annoyingly busy street. They've travelled three days to reach the Mangekyou Kingdom, and her bones are far beyond simply tired- She just wants to lay down on the polished street and be swallowed up by the ground, entering a blissfully eternal slumber.

Oh, she wishes.

The past two years have been long and taxing, mentally-exhausting as well as physically damaging, and easily the most life-changing portion of her life. Well, she supposes that probably isn't the case- She's been dressing as a man to work for a blacksmith in the nearest village, for her mother cannot work in her health condition and she has no other remaining relatives- There's also the fact that women have always been deemed incapable of everything in their little town. She doesn't speak frequently and avoids all attention, kept hidden behind a hood and some bandages she's been wrapping around her breasts, but the constant drain on her physique, as well as the mind-altering task of pretending to be another person, is definitely taking its toll.

To make it all worse, her mother's beyond the help of herbs and it's not as if they could dream of affording a doctor. In all honesty, Sakura Haruno is surprised they've even managed this journey, although, by the panting of her big-bosomed mother, she has doubts that they actually have.

A blond male is still running carelessly, though now a hundred metres ahead of the dulling rosette, the golden embroidery on his magnolia cloak shining against the sunlight of the summer sky, his hood now limp behind his ears. Messy and spiked hair rustles slightly against the blurring of his motions, cerulean eyes eager and determined against the watchful gazes of passerbys; the cloak is an obvious object of interest already, but his face is easily another.

He has his father's eyes and hair colour- that's noticeable at a vague inspection- but his jaw is also just as angular and sharp, his nose containing the same width and his forehead just as thin. His cheekbones, however, are softer, like his mother's, and the natural arch of his eyebrows certainly aren't Minato Namikaze's. The thinner shape of his hair comes from Kushina Uzumaki too, along with the fuller and longer length of his eyelashes, although the upturned shape of his eyes are definitely that of the older Namikaze. Of course, his eyes and hair are enough of a giveaway anyway, without further detail, for everyone knows what the Paladin Knight of the Mangekyou Kingdom looks like.

That famous grin, one that isn't as known as his 'old man's' however, gleams as he sees the typical brooding face of his best friend. Standing with his arms crossed, over the Bridge of Madara and up the Great Sharingan Stairs, Prince Sasuke lies against the majestic door to the Uchiha Palace, night-sky eyes narrowing at the sprinting form.

Tch, what a dobe, the Prince hisses to himself, knowing the situation all too well- Only, this time, he half-expected the blond to be a little more cautious.

"Who would have thought, Naruto Namikaze, late for his own Accolade?" The Uchiha sniggers as the said boy halts in front of him, "Tch, oh that would be right- everyone would have,"

"Teme, even rude to me today? I thought you would be at least a little nice on the day of my ceremony," Naruto pauses for a moment in mock-consideration, "But I suppose there is not a nice bone in your body,"

Sasuke Uchiha scoffs, the sharp perpendicular lines of his jaw empathising the narrow yet strong build of his nose, as well as the defined upturned outline of his deep set eyes and the powerful slanting of his arched eyebrows; pale skin darkens around the crease of his optic organ, no doubt due to his duties as a prince, and the shade of his hair is singular and absolute, defying light itself. His finery, a highly-embellished amethyst tunic and a pair of well-fitting obsidian trousers, hoisted up by a thick, black belt that holds his scabbard, glimmers beneath his white, furred cloak, against the architecture.

The castle itself is proud behind him, shades of light marble cascading down to the deep moat between the palace and the rest of the kingdom; it's always been the divider between those that matter here and those that scavenge, everyone on the other side considered worthless. Towers upon towers litter the grand building in the same ivory tone of the rest of it, the crest ingrained on flags at the highest points of each one, regal boysenberry curtains at the mostly-crimson glass of every window, each depicting the legends of the Uchiha.

Despite being somewhat of an idiot, the soon-to-be knight in front of him wears a scarlet and alabaster surcoat over his chainmail hauberk, his white cloak trimmed with gold lining and the typical coat of arms the Uchiha's possess sewn on over his heart. He looks like a knight, Sasuke thinks, the trace of a current squire diminishing at the gleam of his vanilla sheath.

"Not a nice bone in my body, hn? Yes, say that to the prince who ordered they postpone your accolade another hour, because you are that late, dobe," He retorts, uncrossing his arms and easing the tension in his biceps, "Mother was more than willing, however, considering you are the Paladin's son. It commences in twenty minutes,"

"Ah, well of course you would do that. You are my best friend, jerk," The giggle that follows is enough to melt the stern line Sasuke Uchiha attires, a scoff accompanying the slight smirk that suddenly dawns on his porcelain skin, "I am sorry for being late, by the way, I was at-"

"I know, idiot," The dark-haired royalty interjects, knowing how unwilling his closest friend is when it concerns his mother, "Tch, do not insult me- Of course I know. Come, there is cusine left over in the kitchen for you,"

The blond nods.

Naruto truly appreciates the black-eyed man's efforts in avoiding the subject of his mother's grave, and any onlooker would be able to tell that by the warm smile that completely overtakes his features, but he nevertheless, staying true to the dynamic of their relationship, doesn't voice it. Instead, he follows the prince through a series of corridors and stairways, idly discussing things that don't really matter.

Half way across the city, at a goldsmith's, a woman is in a heated exchange with a well-kept man behind a counter. Sakura Haruno stands behind her mother, almost embarrassed by the desperation of her parent.

"It is real gold, mister," Mebuki Haruno tells him, with urgency, "I promise you, I would never dishonour myself enough to lie,"

And she'd be right, because Sakura knows it is real- She stole it herself, from a rich nobleman who came into her blacksmith's to request a sword for his son, and although she is secretly ashamed of herself for doing it, she's far more concerned about paying for her mother's treatment. If they can't scrape together ten silver pieces, she'll truly be an orphan by the end of the year.

"Yes, well then how would you like to explain how a villager-maiden, such as yourself, is in possession of such an object?" The old man interrogates, his grey hair and shrunken brown eyes shifting in suspicion, "This crest here, this leaf shape, belongs to Lord Sarutobi of the Bakyugan Kingdom,"

Sure enough, on the inside of the golden pocket watch, is a leaf-shaped crest, and, no matter how many silver pieces they ever came to possess, they would never come to own something of a Lord's without theft. She's heard of maids and kitchen staff being gifted such things, but even a profession of that sort was far out of her reach. No matter how hard the rosette struggled to break free of her branding, she would always be a farmer's daughter.

"Forgive my intrusion, but it seems as if you are accusing my mother of thievery?" Sakura finally pipes up, adjusting the hood even further over her hair and taking a few steps forward to stand beside her parent, "When, in actuality, I discovered it in the midsts of a trip to our own village, on a pathway through the woods. It certainly is not stolen, but, if you wish to pass it up, then we shall find another goldsmith- This city does indeed have many of them, after all,"

One look at her, with her thick cloak and half-covered face, and one would certainly feel intimidated- That coupled with her patronising tone and the developed ability enabling her to lie without the fluttering of an eyelash, she's come to master a formidable technique when it concerns persuasion. In fact, if lying was a profession, she'd definitely be a noblewoman by now.

"Tch, you village-folk sure are growing foul," The elder man's gothic shirt shakes with his head, "Fine, I shall purchase it for twelve silver pieces,"

* * *

 

_Two years later and the little girl was eight-years-old, fatherless and someone confused with what her purpose was; she hadn't been out of the cottage in almost three years, which had been the only time she'd ever left it, and her mind was growing more and more numb with boredom each day. Her sister had stopped playing with her and instead worked in the village through the forest, all day and every day, alongside her mother on some occasions when the older woman's health was somewhat more stable._

_On that particular day, she'd been particularly bored and both of her family members were absent- In fact, she was fairly certain that was why she was feeling so dull. Watching the trees sway through the tiny holes in the cottage wall, an idea blossomed in her head— If she went out, no one would see because no one was there._

_And so, with a mischievous glint in her passionate eyes, she escaped from the confines of eroding stone and rotting coniferous; as her tiny feet fell upon the mud floor of the outside world, shackles snapped apart and the planet seemed to turn on another axis._

_Wind, somewhat gentle for the bitter weather, caressed the young girl's locks with a kind of delicacy that caused shivers to resonate beneath her skin, the cool air on the back of her neck calming that adventurous mind. A sense of tranquillity far beyond the capacity of that small, withering farm possessed any wandering thoughts, firm and absolute. Saddened plantation, that clung onto their lives like a starved predator would to its prey, lay blackened against the occasional hue of chartreuse. Crops were buried in graves of dirt, and the little child swore she could feel their lifeline drain from the thin atmosphere._

_Tuneful tweeting echoed more clearly outside than it did inside the cottage, Sakura concluded after a moment, the kind hum of songbirds whispering to the lonely steel sky. Harmonising with the soft melody was the swaying of the trees, their wilting leaves playing one last encore against the thick branches as they chorused their goodbyes to the summer season. It was getting cold- the eight-year-old felt that in the quaking of her bones._

_For the next few hours- or maybe it was even longer?- Sakura Haruno played in the grass, carelessly dirtying the white fabric of her single dress, far too blissful to notice the looming shadows that cast themselves onto the ground._

_The sun was setting._

_Medallion yellow and sandstone orange danced against the navy curtain that had yet to fall, cusps beginning to brighten against its drifting background as the vibrancy of the sun paled gracefully. Temperatures, on her side of the world, shuddered against the newly-birthed moonlight, nightfall starting to beckon the nocturnal creatures into alertness._

_By the time Sakura Haruno acknowledged her surroundings, it was far too late- She was lost._

_The trees had begun to blur into the abyss of the sky, blanketed by the deep hues of black. She supposed they had almost a blue tint to them, especially as she'd been told multiple times that they indeed did, but, deep in the woods, she decided that a simple black would suffice- in fact, she was certain that she'd never seen a shade of charcoal quite so absolute, but she was also certain that she'd never been quite so far away from home to ever notice differently._

_Her mother would have been mad, was the first jolt of fear to electrocute her, before even someone of her age began to comprehend the severity of the situation- She could have been possibly stuck out there forever, stranded and alone, left to fend for herself. At this, she formulated how she'd use the berries found in certain areas to eat, how she'd befriend the animals to protect her, how she'd settle down in a warm cave and sleep soundly in a bed of leaves. Sure enough, despite the fright that paralysed small hands to her side, she found herself at ease imagining such scenarios; had she not been terrified, scared of the constant shadow cast over her blinded eyes, she probably would've enjoyed herself._

_But that thought was violently suffocated the minute she felt rough, calloused hands grip her shoulders, pulling her to the ground. Sakura had struggled, screaming and kicking with tears brimming at the corners of that forest tint, before she had felt herself fall limp into a slumber. The next time she awake, her mother had been holding her close, sobbing into the locks of her hair._

_She hadn't seen her sister since that morning, and she later learned that she would never again- But she refrained from asking for details for a while, too scared for answers. She never did learn the full truth, although she wasn't entirely sure if even her mother knew it._

* * *

"A maiden such as yourself should not be so dishonest, Sakura," The forty-year-old villager scolds her daughter as soon as her feet fall onto the cobblestone of the city streets, the second they're completely out of the blacksmith's earshot, "It is appalling etiquette,"

The woman's criticisms are only met with deaf-ears and an exasperated sigh, however, "I think dying on one's sickbed because one was so honest, in the first place, is far more appalling, mother. Would you not agree? Where is the dignity in death?"

After her elder sister's passing, the fourteen-year-old, as she had been at the time, began to age years within the space of a few mere weeks; where she had once felt a vulnerable duty of fragility around her parent, as if her little feet were walking on eggshells, she now regarded her maternal figure with a somewhat heartless pity.

Not to mean that Sakura Haruno didn't love her mother- because she honestly did- she just found it hard to whole-heartedly empathise with her after all she had been put through. A mother who had resented everything her own family stood for, a sister who was taken by the great grim reaper before she had even caressed the brink of womanhood, a father who had disappeared one day and left three women isolated with no income; her family life clearly had never been perfect, but she had never understood the concept of friendship or romance once, either.

Her life had been tragedy after tragedy and, although it couldn't get much worse, the rosette doubted it would get much better.

"Do not raise your voice at me, young la-"

She was over-talked as they reached the narrowing of a street corner, "Here, here! Buy your tickets for the ceremony! One silver piece! Only one silver piece per person!"

As a simple ceremony was certainly phrasing it lightly, from what the Haruno damsels could deduce, as every street had been glorified with pearl flags and bronze pennons, each occupant undoubtedly suited in their finest dressing. In comparison to the single other occasion Sakura Haruno had ever walked the pathways of the Mangekyou Kingdom, people seemed to come alive today, their usual drained demeanours crumbling with a burst of spirit and festivities, songs sung out by numerous different folk whilst children giggled carelessly, and the old house-wives gossiped more amicably than their common condescending tone would regularly allow.

One particular girl, with long blonde hair and a petite frame, hop-scotched against the cracks of the stone flooring with such an unwavering stamina that the pink-haired teenager almost envied it, her young laugh bellowing out in a way that Sakura knew would one day grow bitter, blushing at the comments her brown-haired companion made.

The onlooker wondered if that was what she would've been like too, had she not been kept locked up in her little cottage, alone from all other children and boys and potential childhood sweethearts. She wondered if maybe she would've been flirted with and teased, or if she would've instead been ignored and bullied- She imagined her life with a different set of circumstances, a different set of people and a different set of choices.

But the girl could only imagine it as another, alternate world, separate from this one which she found so unbearably cruel, where maybe her parents were in love and her sister was alive.

"Do you wish to attend, Sakura? We have exactly two silver pieces to spare, after all," Trust her mother to trade financial stability for a momentary glimpse of leisure. She'd humour her, however, too worn out from years of battling against the woman's sudden whims.

In response, her salmon locks peaked out from her hood as she subtly nodded her head, her blushing hair immediately attracting a crowd of whispers.

Naruto Namikaze, clad in his knightly uniform, stands anxiously with a glass of liquor in the possession of sweaty palms, in one of palace rooms. His best friend, the kingdom's overshadowed prince, had coaxed him into easing his nerves with an alcoholic beverage the instant they'd made it into the fourth floor lounge; he knew exactly where they stashed that stuff, and frequently went against his family's wishes by submitting to its temptation.

Who would've ever guessed, the unwanted sibling, consoling his rejection with defiance and rebellion?

Naruto, of course, has always been the only one allowed to answer such a question.

"Today is the day, Teme, " The blond chuckles to dull down his unease, biting down to the bed of his nails as he places himself beside his best friend, "Today is actually the day, huh?"

"Tch, as you have been saying repeatedly the past quarter of an hour, today is the day. The most significant day of your life, forever, so stop being such a wuss and appreciate it, you moron,"

Sasuke lays limp on one half of the velvet sofas, feet resting up on the glass table, his scotch glass beside them on the table. Next to him, only inches away, his idiot of an associate sitting upright with his legs shaking furiously, tanned skin pale with sickness.

In his typical senseless rambling, he chokes out, "Well, I hope my wedding day will be more important, and meeting you is always going to hold a special place in my heart, and the day I got appointed as-"

"Shut up, dobe. I get the idea, you are a sentimental sap. Tch, lay off, I want to keep my lunch inside my stomach," The Uchiha grimaces, "And your wedding day? Hn, I suppose having a choice in the matter would make it somewhat momentous, although I would not know,"

At this, the cerulean-eyed male sniggers, sans hostility, and loudly retorts, "Oh please, enough of the 'I am a lonely, inhibited prince' act, how long have I known you? You could not care less about customs and regulations, you do as you please when you please, regardless of law and consequence,"

Sasuke nods with a smirk, typically, picking up his drink with his left ring finger and placing it to his lips without much thought. The boy to his right has a point, he's aware, which honestly in itself is surprisingly, but he's never once acknowledged or hesitated at the mercy of another's opinions.

Without much warning, dark eyes fixate on the colouring of his compatriot's cheeks, those black eyebrows suddenly narrowing in consideration at the sudden thoughts that compile themselves in his mind. In repercussion, the man leans forward, until his stern gaze is unconformably and penetratingly unavoidable, pausing for a single second before inhaling a calculated breath.

"Hn, Naruto, you are attentive to what knighthood forebodes, yes? As it would be such a shame if you were to, well, you should know," There's a beat, for his own personal enjoyment of being melodramatic, before he's moved back to his original position, legs crossing over one another, "Well, of course you are informed, otherwise you would not be wearing that hand in arms, but you are still an idiot, despite your rank,"

"Aw, Sasuke, are you worried about me?" The blond, unfaltered in the least, coos, tackling his partner in an unwelcomed bear-hug, "You shouldn't worry, ya kn- I mean, you should not worry, for I am to follow in my father's legacy,"

His correction is annoyingly over-pronunciated, to his royal counterpart anyway, but Sasuke knows better than to instruct him to drop his formalities, like when they were kids- Now, Naruto is to be a regal Knight of the Crimson Guard, highly respected and an honorable member of the palace, he is at least expected to speak with the correct tongue.

As if sensing the end of a conversation, the door is knocked softly three times before a servant calls out to the young prince. Never really bothering to show any form of politeness, unless absolutely compulsory, the boy grunts out a hiss and stands to his feet, beckoning Naruto to follow behind him.

At this, the blond's stomach lurches.

Not uncharacteristically, he dramatically falls to his knees and erupts into a fit of low groaning, suddenly feeling as if the food he'd eaten minutes earlier was the worst idea he's ever had. Sasuke only sighs, helping his friend up with an expression that clearly stated how frequently he's been in this position.

Well, his best friend certainly is an idiot, but even then, the Namikaze son can still feel the dread of such high expectations- He's never done too well with anxiety anyway, although this definitely takes an all time low.

* * *

_A young boy sat on the curb of one of the palace fountains, his regal clothes uncomfortably weighing down his body as he read the contents of a history book- His family history, in fact, but that still didn't make the words anymore interesting._

_He'd been a stubborn child, always inducing inconvenience for his bloodline and most especially his own older brother, but he'd been kind and gentle, too, welcoming of anyone who truly needed a place to stay. In that bracket, vagabond and displaced, was son of the Paladin, Naruto Namikaze._

_Admittedly, at first glance, the young male had been almost everything Sasuke disliked; he was unwaveringly vehement, loyal to an extent that was near plain, blind idiocy, buoyant and noisy as well as completely intoxicated on the highs of life. The blue-eyed boy wore his heart on his sleeve, laughed shamelessly aloud at everything he could, smiled despite the glares and sniggers he was continuously victimised to, and Sasuke hated that._

_Sasuke had built a wall between the outside world and the emotions that swirled around his mind, following his expectations like a true prince should, and yet Naruto had the audacity to exhibit his every state and mood. It annoyed the Uchiha to no end- Where was the justice in such an inequality?_

_The blond could cry as he saw fit, and yet he could only gaze nonchalantly at the things that broke his heart; because he had been birthed to a different lineage, he was forced to shelter everything he wished he could express. It wasn't far!_

_He wanted to cry when he felt alone, too!_

_"Why are ya' always readin', princey? Seems borin', ya' know,"_

_And yet, suddenly, he wasn't alone. He didn't feel alone under that desperate gaze and, although he'd rather break every bone in his body before he admitted it, the attention made him happy._

_The Uchiha regarded the youngster with a tactful eye, absorbing every minute detail of the short, rowdy seven-year-old with an insight far beyond his years. Deciding the child to just be another lonely, honorary patrician, the intensity of his gaze eased and his jaw softened._

_"Tch, someone such as yourself would never be able to appreciate fine literature regardless, so why would I waste my breath explaining it to a common-bred?"_

_Naruto shrugged, with a sheepish grin, "Sorry, I don't get a word of what ya're tryna' say, but I do get that ya seem super bored. Why don't ya come and play with me, princey?"_

_Of course he couldn't comprehend intelligent tongue, Sasuke hissed, reminding himself that such a boy most likely hadn't bore an education like his- Assuming he had been educated at all, that was. Although, in all honesty, despite his fumbling and blatant lack of intellect, he presumably had, for his father was of acrostic blood and was also deemed the greatest knight the Mangekyou Kingdom had ever witnessed. Sasuke knew little about his mother._

_"Hn, I do not think so, moron. Honestly, you are an eyesore,"_

_"I get that a lot, yeah," Naruto nodded, his vibrant smile dulling yet still remaining prominent, blue eyes hiding behind those crestfallen spikes of his, "But even company of an eyesore is bett'a than no company at all, no?"_

_Something had tugged at the dark-haired boy's heartstrings, and he hated himself for it. His family had taught him that kindness could only get one so far, until the inevitability of emotional weakness plucked your heart from your chest and threw out it for the family demons to ravish. Naruto Namikaze would one day be that very weakness, Sasuke had felt it in his bones, and yet he still couldn't bring himself to turn away from those cold, lonely eyes._

_"Tch, how annoying," He retorted, but even the child standing before him could read it as acceptance._

_And, just like that, with a flick of a wrist, a friendship was born._

* * *

"Oh, how I wish I lived in such a castle!" Mebuki Haruno exclaims in wonder as her and her daughter find their place amongst the crowd, "I could marvel at its beauty all evening! What wonderful architecture, what gorgeous designs, what stunning-"

"Mother, please, you are embarrassing me," The rosette sighs, somewhat exhausted after having to push through such a rowdy cluster of people.

They're in one of the outside palace courts, surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of people breathing down their necks, pressed against one another; despite the lack of space, however, the atmosphere sings joy and excitement, chatter and laughter filling every dull aching silence Sakura's ever been victim to. It almost brings a smile to her face.

Had her sister been standing by her side, she certainly would've grinned to the crinkles of her emerald pigmentation, laughed loudly and without hesitation, embraced her mother with unwavering adoration and rejoiced with the citizens of the Mangekyou Kingdom- But, the space beside her, despite the man near enough attached to her right arm and her mother on her left, as well the space inside her heart, remains vacant.

Even as she gazes upon the polished marble walls of the mighty Uchiha Palace, even as she listens to the song of the crowd, she feels as if she's floating in _vacancy_ \- In colourless, odourless, soundless _vacancy_.

 _Nothingness_.

And even as the people erupt in joyous screams and bellow at the arrival of the royal family, that feeling remains.

"People of Mangekyou, travellers and citizens, please bid welcome to his majesty, King Fugaku II, and his mistress, Lady Mitoko," Like dogs, they obey, shouting incomprehensible phrases at the tops of their lungs, to a point Sakura is surprised they aren't dropping dead, "Merchants and buyers, ladies and gentlemen, please bid welcome to our next king, the heir to the throne, Prince Itachi,"

Amongst the crowd, hidden in plain sight, a Sasuke Uchiha rolls his eyes; Itachi would not had been addressed as such if he'd made his own appearance public, but his seemingly disinterested actions towards the accolade had deemed him unworthy of the throne- for, obviously, "a king must always address his public".

In actuality, the young prince just prefers the view from below, with the people, to the stands decorating the high tiers of the palace court. He'd never tell his father that, however, as even he isn't that brave.

Brushing aside his thoughts, the Uchiha tunes back in to the herald's announcements, "- now present the Knights of the Crimson Guard, led by Sir. Minato Namikaze, and the current squires, today wearing the highest honour-"

One thing Sasuke's never understood is just that- The desire to be a knight: a simple, sword-wielding body guard with a fancy honorific placed before his forename, forced to take late shifts and stare into the night sky without the slightest bit of excitement. It's a boring position, he thinks, but he supposes he'd be just as eager to be one had he not been born a prince. Nonetheless, he'll support his best friend no matter what he wants to be, even if that encompasses a petty criminal or a national terrorist. Frankly, he wouldn't mind ruining his brother's perfect little kingdom-to-be, anyway.

When Sasuke sees those familiar cerulean eyes, he can't bite back the pride he allows to well up in his chest, instantly shutting down his prior cynicism and letting the slight curl of his lips be displayed.

_Well, it's not as if Naruto's ever going to know._

* * *

 

Exactly three hours later, the castle is in chaos.

Or, at least, that's what Sakura can make out from the window of their inn; it stands adjacent to the magnificent piece of architecture, sticking out like a sore thumb yet still emitting its own style of appeal; it's warm and cosy, lit up by candlelight and decorated by cotton curtains, cotton bedsheets and cotton everthing-else.

She likes it, it being somewhat reminiscent of the simpler, kinder times of her years, although she honestly just wants to escape the energy-consuming perpetuation of the 'Big City Life' as soon as possible. The girl has always preferred the swaying of the trees to a prostrating assemblage, but she supposes she enjoys it in little doses— it's refreshing, and, if her mind were to think long and hard on it, also revitalizing to an extent.

Guards— and also those of knighthood, Sakura assumes— scamper along the perimeters of the palace in a frenzy of clumsy limbs, their swords clanking against armour in a metallic scream like a child being forced away from his mother: obnoxious, immature. The spectator sighs at the bombasticity of the royal staff, although she doubts any of these undexterous boys are very highly regarded anyway.

Without a warning, the door bursts open, immediately startling the body leaning against the frame of the ajar glass. Green eyes widen in convulsion, alert, but she's tempted to just brush the dramatics of her mother off.

"Very lady-like indeed," she mocks, gaze still fixated on the figures scurrying just mere metres away, quoting her mother and her impervious standards of formality.

"What?" The voice spits, only it's not as feminine or soft as Sakura expects it to be.

At this, she instantaneously throws her torso to face the door, shocked to find a person not her mother; instead, clad in the same armour she was observing only seconds ago, is a large, brutish man with untamed red hair and a full face of scruff. Her mother seems to only have a few years on him, Sakura concludes, by the lines plastered across the forehead of his rounded, chubby face, but those brown eyes droop into his pale, reddened skin with dissatisfaction, in a fashion more lackluster than her mother— In a fashion more lackluster than the few corpses she'd seen in her life, she'd even argue.

He observes her with an thick and intrigued eyebrow, though curiosity not quite piqued enough to rebirth essence into his beady eyes; he double-takes over those pink locks, and she understands why he would, but that doesn't halt Sakura's uncomfortable fidget in the slightest. She despises scrutiny, her days out in the world have told her, hating the way judgment passes through those merciless orbs of self-infatuation, hating the way stares linger too long, too hungrily in places she wished would conceal themselves further, hating her own body for shivering helplessly as if she were but a mere child, once again. Men have always been particularly cruel, in a way different to women— ravenous, almost... Although, in the more logical section of her mind, she vaguely debates that it might be an unfair resolve.

"I-" She begins, somewhat off-centred, "Forgive my slander, I did not consider that another person would enter here other than my companion,"

Companion, mother.

To her, both have the same meaning really, for she's only ever had her mother as a companion, but she's always been good at picking her words anyway. He won't think anything of it and it's most likely unnecessary, but the woman is aware of the connotations travelling with her mother could produce. Patronisation certainly is one in a long list of her distastes.

"Right, but your companion probably won't be comin' back 'ere anytime soon," He says it like the words don't beat the air out of her lungs, he says it like it's supposed to be a bypassing event out of hundreds to come— He says it like he's not insinuating the death of the one person she has left in the world.

Her veins feel cold buried in the warmth of her body. Her lungs constrict against the strength of her quaking chest. Her ears ring static in a violent blur. She wants to cry and yet, despite herself, forcing composure, she inhales a deep breath and smiles a smile so sweet that it could almost fool even the most sophisticated of nobleman.

"I do not understand what you wish to convey,"

The guard— or whatever he is, they're all the same to her— shoots her a skeptical look, one that almost allows his irises to incarnate themselves, and regards the petite figure with laze. He has other places to be, clearly, but he thinks she's pretty enough for him to waste a few more minutes in this tacky inn. If he's lucky, he'll even get something out of it, he snickers wickedly, allowing his gaze to intensify on the curve of her waist and up to the supple mounds of her breasts. He thinks it's a damn shame they're covered.

"Everyone in this area has been pretty much killed off," He offers, suddenly far more interested in the feminine body before him, "There's a mutiny goin' on, princess, what have you been gazin' at with those pretty lit'le eyes of yours? The castle's in shambles, and you can see that right outside, yeah?"

And yet, he's attempting to seduce her, Sakura tries to prioritise over the darker thoughts suddenly plaguing her mind. The lack of concern for the genocide that has allegedly taken place confuses her, and she momentarily allows herself to wonder whether he's accustomed to such an event, or if he's really just so inhumane; a more optimistic part of her thinks that it could just be a twisted joke, and that really, outside is just a normal street. Optimism has never been her forte, though, and she accepts that as she finds herself believing him.

Not bearing to be in the man's presence any longer, under those objectifying eyes, she makes a move to run passed him and down the stairs, surprised by his lack of reluctance. The peripherals of her own eyes vaguely detect the round body following her out when she sees it:

Streets littered with blood.

Bodies drowning in it; women crying as they hold their sons to their chests; men shouting with their parchment-thin bravado despite their trembling legs; guards of all sorts disregarding the corpses that lay at their feet with little to no empathy; citizens dead, cold on the cobblestone of the Mangekyou Kingdom.

_Her mother._

She'd recognise that hair anywhere— She'd know those slight wisps and gentle waves in any land, in any time, having seen that darkened gold everyday since her birth. In the moments she had angered the woman, she'd seen those very tresses be flicked angrily from strong shoulders, and she'd seen them quiver as the woman had sobbed, had grieved. She'd seen those dusty locks be cut short, softened into feathery-light textures and straighter strands, and she'd seen them outgrow the plantation their farm once contained, seen them untamed and unbrushed. She'd felt them and mistook them for silk, she'd felt them and frowned at the state of hygiene her mother allowed herself to fall to, and she'd also hardly been able to recall a thing about those blonde filaments, at times.

_But she'd never seen them stained with blood._

 

 


	2. The Amber of Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasuke struggles with an insatiable rage and his lack of authority.
> 
> A forgotten event hints at the larger scheme of things.
> 
> Sakura turns to an old friend in wake of her grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> Although there definitely isn't going to be a strict upload schedule, expect weekly updates on the weekends, if I'm feeling particularly creative throughout the week, or at least every fortnight (hopefully ;) )
> 
> These chapters aren't exactly long at the moment and will probably be getting longer, but let me know if you think anything is dialogue-heavy or if I'm lacking detail in anything.
> 
> Also, I'm sure some of you have noticed that many characters don't speak in contractions (isn't, doesn't, hasn't etc.) and that's to do with like formality and status and all that, so it's sort of significant I guess.
> 
> Pairings aren't really fixated and there's cheating and a lot of back and forth with that, so be open minded ;)
> 
> In this chapter, there is a lot of things going on, as there will most likely be in all of them tbh, but there are hints and details you should probably remember, so pay attention to certain scenes ;))
> 
> (I also haven't checked through this properly so there's probably about ten million typos but enjoy anyway ;DDD )
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, let's get this party started.

Brown eyes darken, gaze hungrily absorbing each crevasse of pale flesh in its sight; such soft, porcelain skin, so creamy beneath his fingertips that it almost drives him to insanity. He traces patterns along her collarbone with the devouring touch of his lips, hands grasping the mounds of her chest with insatiable desire as her moans linger in the air. She bears a forbidden fruit, each curve of her body tempting him; it tells him to sin, begs him to succumb to every want his body craves— every dirty thought, every whispered secret, every longed desire.

Shikamaru Nara obeys, bowing to the goodness who lays flat before him. Here she rests, legs spread apart, beckoning for his greed in a way that’s almost taunting, as his body towers over her. Eyes roam over the most inner core she possesses, her sacred jewel, and like a predator inspecting its prey, he feels his already unbearably hard cock stiffen more so.  

He guides his mouth to one of her pink nipples, with a trail of wet kisses, before taking it in passed his lips. He sucks hard, twirling his tongue in circular motions as he groans at the sweetness of her flesh. At this, she moans aggressively, eyelids clamping shut, and the nobleman only smirks. He adores how reactive she is, how easily he can make her scream his name in a frenzy of lust, how he really shouldn’t be doing this. She’s his dirty little secret, his little whore.

“My L-lord!” The woman bellows, her voice laced with a thick rasp as her fingers tangle themselves in his long, flowing hair, “Ugh, p-please my-my Lord!” 

A single digit finds itself at her entrance, pressing down on her clitoris in a teasing manner, exciting cruder words to tumble from her mouth. As he pushes it slightly in, so only the tip of his nail is buried inside of her, the woman’s back arches and she bares her throat. Blonde hair falls onto one of the white pillows, like a halo. His teeth sink into her fully erect nipple through a twisted smile, and, suddenly, his entire middle finger is pumping in and out of her. The mistress screams. 

He has a wife, and yet here he is, finger-deep inside another woman, enjoying the warmth of her juices and the taste of her sweat. Here he is, fully willing to fuck her brains out until she can think of no other man, and he’ll be here again tomorrow. He’s been here before, with his cock imbedded into her tight womanhood, slamming into her body as if it’s the last time he’ll ever touch her, and he’ll be here again and again, licking her insides and drinking the finest liquid he’s tasted. Shikamaru Nara will always come back to his whore, will leave his wife in an empty bed at night, and it’ll be his dirty secret.

He’s grown attached to her, in a sick way. He knows it’s wrong— he can feel it in his bones when they meet stares— but nothing’s ever felt more right. He used to be so loyal, as well, but Ino Yamanka infected him with her lustrous smile and sinfully long legs; he’d been seduced by a common prostitute, and now neither of them seemed to ever leave his chambers. Instead, they lie against one another, moaning their titles in sin, hips moving together in rhythm.

When it’s over, when Ino is lying in a pool of her own cum and Shikamaru’s cock is sore, he banishes her to the streets, degrading her with cruel words they both know he doesn’t mean. By nightfall, she’ll be back, clothless and begging for him to take her. The Nara will of course comply, but maybe he’ll hit her a few times, or he’ll place his hands around her neck and squeeze ever so slightly, or he’ll force his penis into her mouth and whisper ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ into her ears. She likes the bruises, honestly, knows that she’ll always satisfy him more than his own consort, and so she willingly submits.

Three fingers pump in and out of her vagina, wetness leaking onto his palm as he spreads his hand out inside of her. Taking both his limb out from inside of her and her nipple from his mouth, he positions himself, the head of his shaft mocking the folds that tighten on him, as his penis glides in. She’s cumming soon after, but it takes another ten minutes of thrusting before he climaxes.

“My Lord,” She says, twenty minutes later, her head resting on his arm and her hands tracing patterns over his chest, still hazy with post-orgasmic tranquility, “Lady Temari is not weary of us, is she? I would hate for you marriage to be spoiled,” 

She doesn’t mean it, and he knows that, but he chooses not to comment on it. He’s a smart man— he knows how to keep both of them content, even whilst his disloyalty breaks both of their hearts. Well, he supposes Temari doesn’t know about his bed partner, which surprises him, but it’s not as if he’d be able to divorce her anyway; they’re bound, contracted to be betrothed for years to come. He doesn’t mind, he likes having them both; Temari is his faithful and loving wife who he has a happy, healthy relationship with, Ino is the whore he can perform his deepest desires with. He loves them both, in all honesty, in his own way.

He’s a sick man, he’s aware, but he wasn’t always like this. Circumstances make the man, he believes, and like many, he’s had his fair share of circumstances.

“My marriage is bound, Ino,” he reminds her, absently gazing up at the ceiling and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

The blonde hates this— hates how he’s two different people, so loving at times and yet so cruel at others. If he were any other man, she’d have left by now, walked out and found another person to service, but he isn’t any other man. She’s in love with him, despite everything, and the sex is wonderful in its own right. It’s warm and gentle at times, offering her a sense of security, yet at others it’s rough and hard, begging her body to submit everything to him. Sometimes it’s comforting and loving, and others it’s passionate and all-consuming.

She loves both.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sasuke Uchiha is angry.

He’s furious, in fact.

Anger swims through the blood in his veins, reddening the said liquid until it’s an unmistakable, vivid crimson. It burns. It boils. It makes him even angrier.

“Sasuke, calm down,” Naruto attempts to reason, but his voice is simply fading into the rest of the background noise, a muffled murmur barely registered, “Sasuke, for the Lord’s sake, stop your pacing and relax, there is nothing you can do,”

He doesn’t care.

He should be with his people— with his country, leading it in this time of anarchy, unlike his incapable kinships. Instead, he’s just the same: impotent, stagnant. All he can do is outwait the political upheaval, locked up in the middle of nowhere, cowering like a spineless commoner. The prince of the Mangekyou Kingdom should be guarding his citizens, not hiding in some rundown village, and he loathes that he isn’t.

The boy isn’t uneducated; he understands the bureaucratic state of the country well, knows of its instability and even predicted the current affairs brought on by such a hysteria, but he didn’t expect to be shoved in some hovel and told to ‘wait until it’s all calmed down’. He isn’t a child anymore— he’s wiser than half of the council, more experienced than at least three-quarters of the politicians and embedded with a devout nationalism. He should be sitting at the grownup table, too.

But here he is, in a thin shack somewhere far north of his home, whilst his castle walls are invaded by terrorists and his people are slaughtered on sight. The Uchiha is aware that his family have never been the most popular of leaders, is fully conscious of the revolts and revolutions staged by the working class and the ones who claim the system to be unequal, knows that his bloodline have treated many in ways regarded inhumane and cruel, and yet he can’t quite bite down the fire the ignites his insides. Such a family had waged wars to protect those ungrateful _bastards_ , such a family has crafted an _empire_ out of ruined cottages and dying crops: where is the loyalty? Where is the gratitude?

He’s disgusted. He’s so furiously dis—

“Sasuke!”

The prince startles to a halt, unclenching his white fists and exhaling a sharp breath. Naruto, who is leisurely sprawled across the single sofa this tiny _room_ holds, lets out a long sigh at the the dark-haired male’s actions, allowing his head to fall back against the violet cushion. He’s tired, especially after the events of his accolade and the impromptu journey, and honestly, he’s growing bored of his best friend’s mannerisms. His first day as a knight and he’s been assigned to protect the ill-tempered second son of King Fugaku II, which is genuinely a sentence he thought he’d never utter, especially with discontent.

In his mind, Sasuke would never need saving, let alone a long-term protector. Then again, in his mind, he would never imagine a peasant uprising on the day of his ceremony, either.

“Tch, why are we even here?” A man opposite him hisses, annoyingly wound up, “We should be assisting Itachi, not waiting around for—“

The blond rolls his eyes, truly exhausted. 

They’re in almost complete darkness, exempt only by the moonlight casting thick shadows across his counterpart’s face, and he nearly finds it calming— Here, one can hear the shuffling of the leaves, the singing of the crickets and the soft dance of the wind. He likes it, it's more pleasant than the busy street life he’s accustomed to.

The simplistic arrangement of the cottage is easier to gaze at than the extravagant and vibrant decorations of the palace, too, but even he must admit to missing the luxury of a heated bed and fine cuisine; all they have here is a single sofa and a glorified chair, placed in the middle of the wooden shed, and a small supply of bread and water.

“You are not stupid, Sasuke, you know the answer to that. If Itachi falls, you must be alive to succeed the throne in his place,”

He receives a murderous glare in response, as per the norm, but Sasuke throws himself into the armchair in defeat anyway, letting his bangs drift into the features of his face without a care in the world. He’s slumped over, despite the usual physical perfection he exhibits, seemingly sulking in a manner that’s too familiar to the Namikaze; Naruto hates this exact attitude. It’s childish, even by his standards. 

And yet, although that is indeed the case, he’s never thought ill of the man before him. In fact, the respect he holds for the young Uchiha is rivalled by none, and he’s come to love him as if he were his own flesh and blood; that is most likely why it’s him, the newest Knight of the Crimson Guard, in this room, and not any other warrior, however more experienced in battle. Well, he supposes that experience in a fight is nothing compared to experience with Sasuke. The latter has to be given willingly by the ice-cold son, whilst the former can be gained easily through repeated trial.

“If my brother falls, there will be no kingdom for me to rule, dobe. I am outraged that our people would dare impose mutiny on us, after all we have given them. To strike and kill one another? Our country has lost all dignity with such a treason, and I do not wish to rule a country so pitiful,” He says, “If I am to be king by my kin’s death, then I will be no king at all. I will live on with pride, not with the hand-me-downs of a corpse,”

“You are stone cold,” Naruto tells him simply, with no judgement, eyes intense on the timber ceiling before him. He finds the colour strange in the dark, for it's as if it’s grown stale, like a form of mould as infected it, but with a shift of his eyes, he notices the starless sky with a sense of disappointment. They don’t see many stars from the windows of the palace, but he thinks it’s even worse here: there’s no grand towers to distract away from the emptiness of the vast sky, only the silhouettes of trees.

“Hn, I do not doubt that, but a king is not a king as a product of his warmth,” The snigger in his voice has Naruto once again rolling the blue of his eyes, “I find no qualms with such a statement, although I certainly do with the uproar of such disobedie-“ 

“Sasuke, teme, you will forever be my brother,” Naruto interjects before his cerulean orbs can become stuck in the back of his head, with a slight exasperation to his voice, “But you do talk some utter bullshit. King this, king that. Disloyal this, disloyal that. Mangekyou is a nation, Sasuke, a great nation filled with followers as well as leaders, and so, it is not solely the people’s fault that it is in shambles,” 

“Tch, it is a wonder you were not born into the Bakyugan with your sentimental philosophies,” The Uchiha straightens, encouraging the blond to also do the same, both regaining composure.

Naruto grins, just about visible in the light of the moon, and giggles warm-heartedly, “No, the Uchihas are good enough for me,”

His best friend smirks in response, although it remains unnoticed.

There’s a knock at the door, two taps before it opens without further instruction. Two men stand before Naruto and Sasuke, both well built and poised with concern. One is Sasuke’s cousin, the other is second-in-command of the Knights of the Crimson Guard, the youngest Uchiha distantly notes, observing the scars across his blood-brother’s face and the mask of Kakashi Hatake. He’s heard enough rumours about them both to know appearances can be deceiving; the comforting hand the elder cousin offers has smeared blood, even despite the kind smile that graces his striking features. The blond besides him takes his hand.

“Prince Sasuke,” The silver-haired man greets, his expression somewhat more nonchalant than his companion’s, “We come with news from the palace, as requested of your mother,”

His cousin stills awkwardly, biting his lip as if contemplating how to tread through a fragile bed of glass, but Sasuke tells himself that it’s all in his head; Sasuke relaxes his shoulders into a slouch, finally feeling his adrenaline crumble with the exhaustion today has amounted to.

“We regret to inform you of your father’s passing,” Obito continues eventually, pronunciating each word softly, and the other Uchiha sucks in a harsh breath of air, astounded, “King Itachi has ascended the throne and is attempting to disband the revolutionists as we speak,”

There’s a moment of silence to digest his words— to comprehend the volumes of his cousin’s words, but Sasuke knows he does not have time to mourn. His kingdom— the very thing his father left behind— is in ruins, and he must support his brother no matter the cost. He cannot allow his home to be destroyed.

“I cannot believe it,” Naruto is the one to break the pause, unsurprisingly, his voice stricken with hurt, “Just this morning, everything was completely fine and now- Now there is a revolt and the king is dead! How- how is that even possible? I became a knight this morning, and now- now there is-“ he stumbles on the syllables, “There is almost nothing to protect,”

“We are in the middle of a war, do not forget. Bakyugan has taken this as an opportunity to seize control of the castle. We are domestically and globally in shambles,” Kakashi adds, although they’re all aware of it as they are of their own limbs.

There’s another halt in the air. 

Sasuke’s eyes shift, as if his sight has been reborn, his eyes blackening impossibly so. He inhales, deeply, before exhaling a perfectly calculated breath, bringing his shoulders upright and his neck extending.

“We must travel further north, to our neighbours, and ask of their protection,” He hates being weak, but he hates his enemies more.  

 

* * *

 

 _“_ Please, my Lord, consider the consequences first,” A man begs on his knees, hands gripping the thigh of his king. The throne room is bleak at best, decorated with sheepskin cloths and the heads of hunted animals mantled up on the walls, the air frosty and the wooden structure eerily quiet. This particular kingdom is more so a set of villages, clustered together by a border of trees and alabaster mountains laden with snow. It’s always been snubbed by the greater nations, but, due to its lack of army and economic growth over the years, it serves the larger lands like a dog would its master.

In his throne, a large oak chair glorified with boysenberry velvet, sits a man as pale as his own country, ivory and aggressive like their blizzards. A cunning eye winnows his subjects with criticality, eagerly devising the world beneath his feet, fingers drumming against the polished wood in anticipation. He hasn’t felt so merry in a while, and everyone can tell. People avoid their king at times like this, turning the corner at the sight of his chalk-like skin and scampering away in fear; at times like this, he gets particularly merciless, particularly playful.

The peasant blanches at the cruelty of those hazel eyes, his arms instantly flinching into himself and his back hunching over. The king cackles at this, the pigmentation of his sharp eyes darkening as he brings a hand to ruffle through the silk of his own straight, black hair. His strands are long and sleek, some pressed in the palm of his hand with knuckles against his milky cheek, others down the limb still strumming a song on the armrest. Although his spine remains arched, his body screams an omnipotence that has others cowering before him. A sly smirk curves thin lips.

“Consequences, hm?” There’s a smoothness to his voice, as if his words glide into one effortless statement, that demands attention, “Well, isn’t that something? I was unsure of the fears that are plaguing my heart, but now I understand why my bones are quaking. A child, a docile and impressionable prince, requests my support, and that in itself really is truly the inspiration of my darkest nightmares,”

The male before him panics, blue eyes widening in a manner that almost allows his deep-set organs to bulge forward. He’s a simple messenger, aged no older than sixteen, and yet he stands before Lord Orochimaru of the North with child-like innocence; he only wants the best for his homeland, only suggesting his concerns for the sake of his family, and yet he trembles in mortified dread. His syllables are choked out. “I did not mean-”

“Ah, but should you really mean anything?” The dark-haired lord chuckles deep into his throat, eyes watching like a viper ready to strike at any time, “The moment I need children to run my empire, I’ll make sure that you are the first I choose-- Or, well, that your corpse will at least be present in such important meetings. Is that to your liking, boy? Do I satisfy your needs?”

The lack of response that follows has him laughing cruelling, but rather than stay true to his words, by turning that scrawny figure lifeless, the man simply swats the child away, bored of their interaction already. Instead, he turns to face another figure-- A woman with pulled back hair and an angular face-- and allows a morbid smile to plaster across his features.

“My, how brave our little prince is getting, I’m almost impressed. Did he send you himself?” He regards the female with a dirty fascination. 

She’s slender, skinny even, with an almost straight torso and bony legs; clad in armour, like many of the knights of the Mangekyou Kingdom, the lines of her physique are swallowed up by iron plates and a thick, white cloak. Almost bragging, her coat of arms rests against her heart on a meager, dusty cloth, out of place on its background that was seemingly put together in mere minutes. Shoulders are broad, unlike everything below her vivid collarbone, and the flesh that is only seen on her face and her neck is creamy, pale with golden undertones. Peanut eyes, cat-like with thick lashes and a pointed edge, hold a thin nose and stark eyebrows, straight with lilac hairs. To match her brows are the full, lavender locks tied low down on the rear of her diamond-shaped head, flyaways present at the base of those small ears.

“King Itachi demands your troops, Orochimaru. Do not anger the mainland further, or you will lose your precious little ice block to a noble who will comply,” She hisses, calloused hands gripping the sheath of her sword with an readied intent to kill, “The land here is worthless, but you have men who can be trained and who can be of help. Either send them now, or we will simply come and force you to fight for us, and we all know that your strength lies not with a blade,”

The man chuckles again, more wickedly, as his hands find a smaller knife imbedded into a pocket of his cloak. With ease, he flings it inches from defined cheekbones, snipping off the few strands free from her hair tie, before watching it land in a wooden beam just behind her frame.  Astounded, the purple-haired woman sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, before regaining her composure. He’s a tricky man, a full deck of cards stashed up his sleeves, Anko is aware. He’s always been at least ten steps ahead, even when it seems otherwise, but she’s learning, with each encounter, and growing less and less surprised each time.

When she first met him, she was intrigued; his face took days to leave her mind, and even then, every so often, those snake-like eyes would resurface from the depth of her thoughts, and she’d be reminded. Orochimaru is strangely attractive, she thinks, with an almost feminine face and features too sharp and too narrow to be humane, conjuring this disgusting pull inside of her-- She’d never admit it, never take ownership of the desires that skim passed her eyelids at the stroke of sunset, in her most intimate moments, but she certainly feels it: A heat.

A sort of heat that sets her skin ablaze under his lingering gaze, a sort of heat that warms her body when she sets foot in his god-forsaken country, a sort of heat that repulses her as soon as it's passed; A heat that she knows is sin, but it’s not as if she’s the purest of people anyway. She won’t admit to that, but deep down, buried under a bed of regret and memories she’s continuously pushing aside, it’s there— A _want_.

“Anko, my dear, you’ve grown harsh,” His voice is softer than usual and she honestly hates that, but Anko is more than certain that he does it on purpose.

_He’s too smart, too cunning to not._

Half an hour later, she’s angrily storming out of his throne room and right into the last person she expected to see; A Sasuke Uchiha, with messy hair no doubt blown about by the harsh winter winds of the north, and three others she can easily place to a name, stand impatiently. Well, the silver-haired male seems incapable of such emotions, to her knowledge, but the two beside him are vocal in their discontent, and the prince himself has never been good at containing his vicious scowl.

“My Lord, I have received no word of your arrival. It seems as if you and the king are in the same place of mind, however,” She greets with a kneel he quickly dismisses, “Although, I must apologise for it seems as if King Orochimaru of the North is noncompliant,”

“He will not be by dusk, I can assure you. I have not travelled three days to be turned away, and no man under the rule of the Mangekyou Kingdom is pardoned from my brother and I’s direct laws. I will behead him if it comes to it, in view of his very subjects, for it is treason if he objects,”  

Anko nods submissively, before she is led away by the second Uchiha.

  


* * *

 

 

_When Sakura Haruno was seven-years-old, three men came knocking at her door, each distinctly different from one another. One appeared far older, with hair as white as snow and lines covering his face, strange scarlet tattoos under his beady eyes like tears of blood. He was funny, she thought, but that was quickly brushed aside by the second man; like the first’s maine, his skin was also as white as snow, but his skin had a youthful glow to it, his features sharp and defined, his smile eerie. He certainly wasn’t funny, being genuinely the stuff of Sakura’s nightmares, but even he didn’t have her trembling like the third and last man._

_Spiky, charcoal hair ran down his back in a manner that reminded the young girl of the little hedgehogs that once littered the forest, his eyes were dark, as if all of the shadows of the world consisted in the pigment of his thick-lashed organs-- It seemed as if he brought nightfall with him, sucking the warmth from beneath the cottage ceiling into those soulless irises, and encouraged rime to build up in the little house with just the step of his feet._

_And yet, although the winds of their land were indeed so frosty that she had felt her fingers numbing, nothing could compare to the ice within that man. Sakura had touched snow with a warmer heart, felt sleet freeze her cheeks with more heat in its blue blood, and had bitterly shivered in winters with more swelter than Madara Uchiha had contained inside him. His gaze paralysed her. It ate away at the bubbling joy she bore, suffocated the very air from her lungs and clutched her ankles in a covetous grip._

_“Mebuki, must I always remind you to keep that atrocious hue out from my eyes? It is blinding,” The stranger’s voice was exactly as the rosette had foretold-- Deep like the hollows of his pupils, smooth like silk she’d never had the pleasure of possessing, wicked like the witches from her storybooks, “I would hate to have to have it stained another colour. Perhaps a striking crimson?”_  

_The mother gasped aloud, instantly hiding her daughter’s strands of coral with her own forearms, in turn trapping the child within her limbs. The seven-year-old, however, seemed to take no notice of such words, instead absent-mindly shivering under the glare of Madara Uchiha. “You promised us you would leave her be, on the condition we remained in hiding. Where is your loyalty? How dare you threaten my ch-”_

_The man had simply chuckled, but it had sounded like nothing the little girl had ever heard before—it was dark, exuberating a thick, pungent evil. It begged earthquakes to form in the marrow of her bones, shattering what little sense of dignity she contained at such an age, leaving her breathless. “I dare because I am of the royal family, Mebuki. Must I always remind you of everything?”_

_His presence had blurred the companions accompanying him, the sickly thin body of the other dark-haired male camouflaging against the winter storm. Jiraiya, although much kinder than both, chose to leave the interaction uninterrupted, instead resting against the door frame in a somewhat lackluster manner. Not dissimilar to the sage, Orochimaru had simply remained outside during the entirety of the exchange, indifferent to the purple bruises imprinted onto his skin as a gift from the raging hail. All of them, in fact, cared not for the weather that had frost crawling upon their flesh._

_“Of the royal family? Oh, what a joke!” The blonde had jeered tartly, hollering like an enraged beast, tightening the arms around the youngest daughter, “A family of thieves, more like! Royalty is entrusted, Madara, and the Uchiha have never encompassed a shred of honour in their pathetic lives! Theft is no talent, allow myself to remind you of that! Your family are thieves— are disgraceful, barbaric criminals, brutish and ill-mannered and-“_

_“That is quite enough.”_

_Surprisingly, the voice had not been the velvet of the eldest Uchiha, nor the repitallian ice of the northern king, but instead had been the gruff, almost warm roar of Jiraiya of the Mountain Terrain. He had stepped forward, shoulders broadened and eyes penetratingly fierce, to stand between the embodiment of cruelty and Mebuki Haruno, a straight line in place of aged lips. For the first time since he had invaded their cottage, Sakura could have associated that hauntingly feral aura with the men rear of him, as if she could no longer recognise the malevolence of that stare as the one that had been sweetly peering down at her just moments before. He hadn’tbeen the same person, her heart insisted._

_As tanned fingers reached out to pry a little body away from its parent, pink locks shifted with the panicked writhing of their owner, causing Jiraiya's hand to halt in thought. He hadn’t meant to scare her, really, for he honestly did have a soft spot for children, but even a man as blissful as he understood the complications awaiting the entire of the north had she remained alive much longer. That child was a bad omen, tempting fate and beckoning it with the flutter of her eyelashes, and even a man as kind as he could comprehend the necessity of her death. If she had lived on, the majority of his own land, as well as the land of his compatriots, would have surely fallen to ruin._

_But her eyes, so bright and so innocent, had him questioning the very purpose of their journey; to kill a child, no older than a few cycles of the moon, had seemed so wrong. How could he have pulled through and committed such a crime? With those wide, doe orbs of a summer-day forest, kind and trusting and ignorant to all the sins of the world, gazing up at him in curious wonder? He froze, unable to breathe with the suffocating inhalation of self-disgust, and almost found his body stumbling back._

_“Madara, we cannot,” Pleadingly, the silver-haired man had reasoned, ripping his eyes away from those jewel irises as if they had burned him, “She is but a small child, young and pure and sinless. If we were to enact any crime upon her ivory blood, our souls would be sentenced to the underworld by the Mighty One himself. We must not, at least until her blood has been blackened by the double-edged sword of maturity,”_

_At such rambling, the mentioned man had simply rolled the black of his eyes, ignoring the relieved gasps of air the woman before him choked down her throat. Instead, he had stifled a deep sigh and turned his back on the eyesore before him. Mebuki had not hesitated to turn her child and bury her into a desperate embrace, soothing the girl’s shaking with gentle caresses down her back and considerate words whispered into her hair. The pair had taken no notice of the figures diminishing into the white woodlands._

_“You are no believer of allegories, Jiraiya. You are no man of superstitions nor a worshipper of any faith, none other than your own,” Madara had uttered in the depths of the forest, although he was certain the male had been aware of his knowledge regardless, “Do not forget that I know everything there is to know, and that I do not condone treachery of any volume, however little,”_

_In response, the sage had nodded, although impetuously, a grin worn on his face. “Of course, you remind me every chance you get.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Shikamaru, you know I would only come to you in the most dire of situations,” A woman voices with exigency thick in the song of her tone.

A cloak hides the exquisiteness of her tresses, although she doubts that it augments to much in the aridity of that particular tavern, as her torso is hunched over a table in the corner. Opposite her is Shikamaru Nara, a noble who owes her a few favours, one of which she’s insisting he pay back today, but his gaze is bored and he’s clearly wishing to be elsewhere. To assist her pleading, she’s reached out over the table to grip his hand.

The man raises a sharp eyebrow in confusion, the crease of his small, right eyelid flattening upwards as the almost rectangular shape of his mocha eye widens. He’s always been pale, she thinks, but now the paste is stark in contrast to the deep raisin pigment beneath his lashes, the sangria much alike to her own. Like herself, she suspects he hasn’t slept in days either, and she can nearly feel his stress manifest in the lines across his temples.

But he’s good at handling himself-- he always has been, probably always will be-- and so she finds her mind at ease anyway.

His hands brush her own off, gently, and he lifts his body to meet her with a proud pose, as if recollecting his wandering thoughts and locking them into the upright contours of his spine. Composed, he offers a tight smile, although it isn’t one that contains any malice, and exhales deeply. “Dire, hm? What is so urgent that even you are concerned? You, who has only ever been shaken in the deepest corners of despair? Confide in my shrewdness, Sakura,”

This conjures a light scoff, a sound that is music from the recent rasp she’s been coughing out, and the woman has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Perhaps, if her eyes had not been coloured with the petals of a rose, stabbed by thorns and watered by the rains of humanity, she may not have had to do so; she may have rolled her irises so far back into her head that she may have seen constellations light themselves up. Trusting in the male before her, however, she has no doubt that his genius has already tore apart every minute detail of her being, analysed each factor with refined perfection and glued it all back together, already understanding her very essence far greater than she has ever.

Kindness is worn on the soft smile he offers, so raw and genuine that it almost takes her by surprise. He’s always been so on guard, so immaculately put-together that Sakura has, more than once, regarded him with awe, and yet, here he is, exhausted and withered down and so uncharacteristically mortal. Green eyes warm in content, liking this change-- She’s never been too much of a fan of cold exteriors, especially her own, and watching him unravel before that firm gaze somehow personifies everything that Shikamaru really is, down to his very atoms.

“I-“ She begins, but quickly feels her mouth dry and a bitter taste gag at the back of her throat. The Haruno’s stomach lurches, as if it’s been dropped off the edge of a cliff, and bile rises up her oesophagus in a manner that encourages her last meal to follow. 

This has been happening frequently, as of late; whenever she recalls that vivid, mangled image, whenever she recounts her true, suffocating solitude— All she thinks of is death. Her mother’s comes at first, for it’s been ironed onto her very eyelids, and then she’ll recall Hanako‘s soon after, with just as much acidity hissing away inside of her.

Sakura bites her lip in defeat, wincing at the pictures that she paints so violently in her brain, before letting out a strangled sob. “I— I wish I could say it, Shika, but I— But I really cannot,” Her voice is broken, like everything else about her, croaky and viciously painful in her larynx, but Shikamaru just nods understandingly.

She supposes that it’s natural, for there are very few things in the world that he doesn’t understand.

“Okay,” Is all he really comments, with a sort of definition that puts her mind at ease, sparring the female further pain, “So then, at the very least, enlighten myself in a way that allows me to assist you,”

At this, she pauses. 

 _How long has it been since someone’s been willing to help her?_  

Even her mother hadn’t gone that far, although she doesn’t doubt that, when push came to shove, the parent would’ve taken the sun out from the sky and placed it around her neck, just so that her child could have eternal warmth close to her heart. She doesn’t thinking about the woman, though, for just the hint of those golden locks has a waterfall threatening to escape from the confines of her baby pink lashes, a strong fist wrapping around the organ beneath her creamy chest.

“Take me home,” She begs, voice catching in the back of her throat, letting the tears fall from her eyes in a desperate, quick manner— Not slow nor elegant, just harsh and urgent. Instantly, she brings her slender hand to rub at the corners of her glistening orbs, fingers pressing down her lower waterline as if to erase away the dancing liquids, “Just take me home, Shika, so I can mourn,”

But she’s already mourning.

She’s been mourning for days, in fact, with an emptiness biting at her lungs in the moments she forgets to breathe, the ice of desolation clogging up the glands of her mouth and heavy cries roughening the back of her larynx to a point where it hurts to even swallow. It’s as if her every purpose of being as wilted, in its placing leaving a pitiful stench of inhumanity, light that’s been crushed by the palpitations of her heart, low and aching. Sakura feels as if a rib has been stolen from her, snatched away by the demons of grief, but she tries so hard to forget about the agony boiling in her gut, sizzling away at the organs embedded deep within her.

Honestly, she wants to die— For what use is living if her soul has never felt so lifeless? How can she live when it feels as if her heart has already stopped? How can she continue to breathe through punctured lungs and cracked ribs?

“Okay,” Shikamaru says again, after a few moments, with the same certainty he always exhibits, his lowered stare lifting to bite into the redness of her eyes, “Although I must warn you, Sakura, this kingdom is far from politically stable. There is tyranny inflicting chaos upon the streets and baseless patriotism murdering thousands without means— It is a hard time to travel, especially towards the north, and so I must alert you of the dangers. If you value your life, turn back tonight and stay hidden away,”

She shakes her head with nonchalance, “But I do not care, Shikamaru. Beat me down at dawn if you will, and no protests will escape my lips, I can assure you,” She wipes tears from her eyes, before lighting up with a determination that stops even the saltiness of her lashes, “But I would like to bid my home farewell at least, I would like to reminisce about the days I had with Hanako and my mother, so take me there, tonight if you are willing, and then lay me down on my bed for a final sleep,” 

He opens his mouth to respond, but even he is made speechless at such an oration, before he brings his fingers to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Recollecting himself, he knows better than to protest against a woman with such a burden upon her chest, for he’s known since she walked in that she is now well and truly alone, but he still wishes to reach out to her, and tell her to nurture her life aggressively until a natural end, but he indeed knows better. “Okay,” He says for a third time, although, despite himself, it surprisingly contains the same absoluteness, “I will arrange a carriage to the north immediately, so rendezvous with it at sundown, just outside the northern gate,”

A blonde maiden, who Sakura recognises as his consort, is greeting her several hours later, right outside their meeting point. With her is a black, inconspicuous horse, laden with a simple saddle. She doesn’t comment on the lack of carriage, knowing full well of the domestic situation within the castle, and instead, wordlessly, hoists herself up onto it. She’s ridden many times, with horses both wilder and more tamed than this one. 

As fast as the wind, she’s on her way to the north.

 

* * *

 

 

“She’s a whore, really, practically beggin’ for it,” An old woman tells Sasuke and his company, gossiping like many of the housewives of Mangekyou— Only, she’s actually a bartender in the single tavern the north houses, and not a housewife. Still, she resembles them quite well with a rounded figure, plump almost, and big reddened cheeks and hair tied into a bun-like fashion, “I warned my son to stay away from girls like that, but no, he didn’t, and ya know what happened to ‘im? He walked in on her ridin’ some noble! Abso-bloody-lutely outrageous, I tell ya!”

Sasuke makes a disgusted face, true to his inner feelings, and inwardly thanks Kakashi when he chimes in a polite: “Please, do not be so crass, madam. The prince does not stomach such things.” Naruto and Obito, on the other hand, are laughing merrily with pints of beer in their hands, singing along with some tavern girls. Unlike the cold, isolated habitats that the rest of the north contains, this place is full of buoyancy and joy, a chorused buzz lingering in the air as a comforting presence. It’s as if the prince’s best friend has morphed into a single building, his exuberance dancing in the very breaths around him, mounted upon the wooden walls and hung over the windows as a chartreuse curtain.

A cloaked figure enters the warm room, somewhat unnoticeably, but Sasuke thinks that it’s too far pulled up over the silhouette’s face to be mundane— He’s bored as it, never being one to find drunkards and prostitutes amusing, to an extent that almost has him waltzing over to it. Despite the Uchiha’s piqued interest, however, he remains stationary, boring his dark eyes into the froth of his amber beverage and resting his back against the wall. He’s sitting at the end— or beginning, really- of the bar, Kakashi to his right and the other two somewhere rear of him, at one of the tables.

He’s clad in a cloak of his own, although his is white and tailored with precision of the highest tier, his hood resting on those broad shoulders of his, but he could quite comfortably be swallowed up by the wall and fall into a deep slumber. With all of anarchy of his kingdom, he hasn’t had a moment to rest, continuously strategising and formulating plans to support his eldest brother, or barking orders at the few officials residing in the northern towers. He’s been busy, exhaustingly busy.

An intoxicated Naruto rests an arm on his closest shoulder, alcohol-thick breath coming inches away from the young Uchiha’s face, although it seems as if he’s somewhat sobered up. In fact, the dark-haired Uchiha thinks he looks stricken with desperation, now. Blue eyes are wide, cautious, and his lips tremble as if he’s unsure how to phrase something. The sun-kissed strands of his maine are ironed up, as if he’s been consistently running those digits through each lock, and his eyebrows are furrowed in concern. 

“Sasuke, teme, we have to go,” He’s near incoherence, but the male recognises the imperativeness his best friend conveys. “Sasuke, I think- he- A guard-” He keeps breaking off, manically running through scripts in his mind, trying his hardest to go about this with diligence, but he comes up blank. “Sasuke, we need to go now,”

The prince is on his feet in second.

  
  
  
  



	3. The Sandstone of Seven O'Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Back again, surprisingly, with a decent update schedule! 
> 
> This story is just writing itself ;D 
> 
> As I have warned, there is a mention of NON-CONSENSUAL SEX. That means RAPE. It's about three sentences long, with NO DESCRIPTION OF THE ACTUAL ACT, but is crucial to the plot. If you do not want to read it, I will PUT THESE SAID SENTENCES IN BOLD so you can skip them, as, as long as you're aware that it's happened, you don't need really any more detail.
> 
> Obviously, rape is such an awful, horrible thing that honestly makes me feel sick to write about it, but it is regrettably a part of this story line. Some of you are probably thinking that, if I think so, I could've just changed the plot- Sure, literally, I could've. On the other hand, with the context I'm writing in (this medieval whatever thing I'm writing in) I think it's most likely something like this would have happened, and I also wish to portray this said character's character (ew I just used the same word in a row ;( ) in a very specific light. Also, regrettably so, in this time of ours, it's still something that needs to have it's awareness of raised.

“So you are a king now, Itachi?” A voice is mocking, tauntingly smug, as a man strides into the Uchiha Palace throne room, a battalion of dark-haired soldiers at his command, “Well, it was fated so, I suppose.  _ King Itachi of the Mangekyou Kingdom _ \-- It has a nice ring to it, I will surrender, however, I personally prefer  _ King Shisui of the Sun and Moon Kingdoms _ . It is bigger--  _ bolder _ , almost, if you will,”

 

The king sits on his throne without a single movement to signify his recognition, still as the bodies that lay lifeless in his streets, deep eyes tracing the intricate patterns chiseled onto the marble floor. His jaw rests on the knuckles of pale, slender fingers, as if before him stands nothing but an empty stairwell, awaiting the arrival of a man relevant enough to left his head from his hands. Being as polite as he is, he gives his guest the courtesy of raising his onyx irises, but his skull remains atop those soft digits.

 

“You speak of such ancient formalities, traitor. As the Uchihas are no longer the moon, the Hyuugas are not the sun. It is laughable that you could think you would be able to rule either, let alone both of them,” He remains monotonous, matching the ego beneath him, gazing up at him from the stairs leading up the elegant chair itself. 

 

Shisui laughs cruelly, filling the vacancy of room with an uncomfortable echo. His guards are so quiet that Itachi can’t distinguish their breaths from the silence that follows his former ally’s cackle, but even a corrupted form of his erstwhile best friend secretes the vibrancy of the untainted form. “Oh, Ita, you misunderstand me. The Uchiha cannot be the moon I refer to if they were  _ never  _ the  _ true  _ kings of this land, anyway.  _ Thieves  _ do not wear such titles, did your parents not teach you that? Well, I was there, actually. They never taught you  _ anything _ ,”

 

“Are you not  _ an Uchiha _ , cousin?” The king asks, softer this time. It’s said like a secret, Shisui thinks, defenseless and raw, like something whispered into a pillow in the middle of the night. Despite appearances, the said cousin knows, Itachi has never been truly stoic; he’s always cared, always loved with a passionate heat, sacrificing anything and everything for his ridiculously pacifist beliefs. Once, Shisui had been the same. 

 

Once, he had been willing to die in the name of the man before him, willing to endure pains sent from hell itself for the boy he grew up with, willing to concede to the devils if it meant that his best friend would survive another minute-- And concede to the devils he did, some will argue, but Shisui sees it differently. The Hyuuga are no devils, nor are the real culprits behind this, and he’d even go as far as to defend the Uchiha from such an epithet, but his lips have long been sealed shut. He will no longer utter the words into the new king’s eardrum, not willing to enlighten Itachi of what he knows, nor will he defend himself any further than with his own dignity. 

 

Instead, he’ll allow his old best friend the virtue of ignorance in his final moments. He’ll grant his best friend the antagonist he wishes to blame. It may hurt, watching those night-sky eyes brim up with hatred, but Shisui knows it’s just, really. 

 

The cousin rolls eyes despite himself, drawing his sword as his feet climb up the ivory stairs. “I am more Hyuuga than anything, Ita. To prove that, I will behead you with my  _ own  _ sword,” He says, growing closer and closer towards the man he will soon impale. 

 

But Itachi sees through him, as if he were gazing upon the glass exterior of Shisui’s body, bringing his hand to fall beside him on the armrest. The monarch watches the stationary guards with an unreadable stare, as if calculating their very measurements through the lilac tunics befitted over their silver armour, before lifting his eyes once more to the man who has long since outgrown his memories; he’s taller, obviously, and broader too, with dark wavy locks longer and inky eyes impossibly duller. It’s still there, though, that blinding ray of sunlight, embedded deep into the man’s soul and portrayed in the pupils of those obsidian oceans, but Itachi thinks it’s paled within the musk of his eyelashes. 

 

He longs to witness its full brilliance, once again, to see the immaculate reincarnation of the brightness that has kept him sane, from the confines of his most intimate dreams, but Itachi knows that, with his inevitable death, the light will be extinguished completely, soon. It’s a shame, as is his own parting, but for his country, he’s willing to have each of his teeth pulled out, one by one, alongside the balls of his eyes and the nails attached to his fingers; he’s willing to fall at the hands of his closest friend and sleep beneath an unmarked grave, for all eternity, not even passing onto the next world. He’ll die with a smile, his only regret being unable to bid his dearest brother farewell. 

 

At least he’ll be passing on the throne, leaving his brother something to inherit, and at least he can rest at ease knowing that Sasuke has fled to the north, safe and secure and far out of the Hyuuga’s reach. He wishes his mother would have done the same, but the grief in her heart is enough to paralyse her for weeks to come, if she doesn’t join his father soon, and so he allowed her to remain still in her husband’s bed. 

 

Itachi sighs, exhausted with the politics of this world. “Why must you sacrifice your very sanity for this cause, cousin? Why do you battle for a world where you are rendered  _ broken _ ? Is it not counterproductive to your wishes, ones that encompass  _ freedom  _ and  _ love _ , if you are  _ unable  _ to be  _ free  _ and  _ love  _ when it has all been said and done? Answer me this,  _ Shisui of the Uchiha _ , why do you break your own heart and strike at your  _ brothers _ ?” 

 

A blade pierces the beneath of a shoulder of the Uchiha sovereign, tearing the scarlet garment and wetting it with a trail of blood. Soon, it will be dyed a dark wine, completely and indisputably. Then, his death will follow and his kingdom will be lost to its enemies. Itachi winces in pain for a second, before coming to the terms with the metal blaringly unfamiliar in his flesh, gazing at the calloused hands wrapped around the scabbard of his penetrator. 

 

Shisui, now standing before the elder brother, turns to address the spectating crowd, tightening the grip around the hilt. “Leave me, guards, tend to the other men in this castle and bring me their heads. I wish to have a private chat with the King of the Crimson City before I take his life, and then his throne. Give me half of an hour, and then we will take rule over this land,” 

 

Like dogs, they scamper away within a heartbeat, turning back and opening the large, wooden doors centred against the opposite wall. Itachi watches their diminishing bodies with dread, but the agony in his shoulder halts his voice from calling out in protest, and he forces himself to ignore the figurative sword twisting his heart. 

 

“Please, cousin. Have you no remorse? Kill me, take my throne, torture me as you see fit, but please, spare my people. They are innocent, simple bystanders in our war. I beg of you, my dear cousin, let them live,” He pleads, somewhat pathetically, but both feel a relentless grip around their hearts now. 

 

Relief washes over the king, for he recognises that look-- A forgiving, merciful gaze that would put anything and everything before the man who possesses it.  

 

“Lady Mikoto will come to no harm,” The male before him states, absolutely and without any leeway to protest, and Itachi fights the urge to smile. “The servants, the kitchen maids, the guards, the knights, the ladies-in-waiting, the councilmen, the tutors, the nobleman, the courtmen, the doctors, the wet nurses, the children-- Everyone else who resides in this palace, that is, will be dead before nightfall. Those are the undeniable laws given to those who partook in this mission given to us by the Hyuuga, and  _ none  _ will object to them, not even I,” 

 

His smile  _ crumbles _ . Itachi gasps, mortified, instantly writhing as he brings a hand to clasp at the blade inside him, desperation overtaking every other emotion he feels. He’s panicking, which many would say is out of character for the dignified Prince Itachi, but he is no longer a prince; he is the  _ King  _ of every one of those people, a leader who feels intensely for them, who cares for and protects them, and he will not let brutish  _ terrorists  _ displace a single hair on their heads. 

 

Shisui pushes the sharp edge in further, twisting it to widen the wound before bringing it down to slice the man’s chest. A choking sound escapes the monarch’s throat, his face contorting into lines of unbearable pain and anguish, both hands now around the sword, in turn cutting the palms that have already long been soaked in blood. This, however, doesn’t stop his attempts to break free, to run and warn the women and children of his castle, to command the men to attack without remorse-- What stops him is the numbness that suddenly has trapped his legs.

 

He’s in so much pain, so much numbingly agonising pain that he almost wishes his death would come sooner-- But he has a kingdom, he has subjects and people dear to him that he wants to see again, he has too much to lose to submit to the Grim Reaper just yet.

 

“Listen to me, my cousin, for you do not have long and I wish for you to know this as you part with us,” But the man has grown colder, within a mere moment, ice frosting the shoulder that has been perforated, as Shisui brings his free hand to grasp at his other shoulder, viciously urgent fingernails digging into the bed of chilled skin beneath Itachi’s tunic, “We of the Uchiha are  _ thieves _ , and many can tell you so. This throne that you bleed out on, that you drench with your stolen, entitled blood, has never belonged to us-- Not  _ rightfully _ , anyway. Our lives, tainted and covered in treachery, do not belong to us. We are mere pawns in Madara’s game, owned only by him and degraded by ourselves. There is no dignity in death, my dear friend, but at last, you are free from this fated curse,” 

 

He’s about to continue after a short pause, to truly enlighten Itachi of the meanings behind such words, but the Uchiha buckles forward, further onto the sword that is now at his gut and falls limp. There is a pool of blood beneath him, trailing down from the throne in a way that Shisui feels is quite fitting. That, however, does not stop the single tear that falls from his left eye, as he removes the blade from his best friend’s corpse. 

 

Wordlessly, he places his sword in its sheath and walks out, his light truly extinguished. 

 

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

 

“Where are we going, dobe?” Sasuke Uchiha asks for the fourth time that very day, the cold biting away at his fingertips as they trot through layers upon layers of snow. He’s exhausted, as if his energy is being continuously drained by the thoughts that linger ominously across his mind, and his partner’s lack of responses, each time, do nothing to ease his throbbing headache. “As your prince, I command you to answer me, knight.” He knows it’s a cheap tactic, but he doesn’t care. 

 

It, however, is to no avail; Naruto seems far too distracted to even comprehend the Uchiha’s desperate wailing, his keen gaze glaring off into the white horizon as he absentmindedly paces onwards. They’re alone, suspiciously, walking to God-knows-where in this horrifying weather, and the blond can’t even bring himself to answer a single question-- Instead, he’s letting that suffocating silence open the prince’s mind, in a manner that the latter thinks is truly cruel.

 

It’s in times like this that he can really think; it’s times like this that he can go over recent events and digest facts and break down speeches-- And usually, a moment to recollect himself would be a blessing, but usually, he didn’t have the impending reverberation of death chronic above his head. Usually, he didn’t have to brush aside the fact that his own father, the man who been such a blaring thorn in his side, was  _ dead _ . Usually, he didn’t have to pretend that his own home wasn’t corrupted with entrails and political outrage, either.

 

The thoughts strangle him, tighten his lungs and freeze the blood in his veins, and he doesn’t know how to catalogue that in his big, prodigious brain; he’d spent his whole life accepting that he’d always be a backup plan, stealing liquor from cabinets and sleeping with prostitutes to get at such a concept, right behind the wonderful, perfect Prince Itachi and his pastor-like antics. It’d been embedded into his very being, as if ‘in case of emergency’ had been branded onto his skin like a faucet of his very personality, and he’d embraced it, though with reluctance and distaste-- He’d understood his purpose, his reason for existence, and he’d come to terms with it.

 

And yet, now, he isn’t even certain that his kingdom will stay as a possession of his family. Now, he’ll be pleasantly surprised if he makes it to dusk. Now, he feels as if he’s more of a deadweight than an alternative to his elder brother. Now, he feels as if he’s lost the very direction his life was supposed to take. 

 

Now, he feels lost.

 

“Namikaze!” He calls out again, just to hide away the sensation of bile rising up his throat, his objectives now borderline childish. “Answer me at once or I will turn back round and find someone who will. Tch, why are we heading back south, moron?”

 

Broad shoulders tense, relaying to Sasuke that his question has been heeded, and the man in interrogation slows ever so slightly. In the vast field of magnolia frost, which is seemingly ongoing, every shadow, for there is so few, is like a screaming flare gun, unable to conceal itself and begging for attention; the prince notices the minute clenching of his best friend’s jaw, even from behind, and consciously takes a note of the blue-eyed knight’s discomfort. After a while, or maybe only a few seconds in actuality, the blond exhales deeply. “I don’t know, Sasuke,” 

 

His voice is soft and somehow pleading-- to what, Sasuke wouldn’t be able to tell you-- and his lack of annoyingly perfect formality isn’t missed. In their more intimate moments, the boy reverts back to his younger self. He’ll say more yet have less meaning, rambling on and on about senseless topics and things the other male thinks are unimportant, with an almost violent passion and an appreciated informality; since his promotion was announced, however, Sasuke’s seen less and less of it.  

 

This, however, doesn’t contain childlike innocence or ferocious buoyancy, no empty words or inappropriate remarks;

 

Just raw, desperate Naruto.

 

Just kind, fierce Naruto with warm, expressive blue eyes and an assertive, strong jaw. 

 

“Then tell me why,” Sasuke instructs, with an iciness not dissimilar to the wind painting his pale flesh blue, “Tell me why at once. Do not brush aside my orders, Naruto, for I am your prince-- Tch, better yet, I am your best friend. Tell me why, do not keep me in the dark where it concerns-” 

 

“What does it concern, huh?” The blond interjects, harshly, a thick outrage in his tone, turning to face the male. “What do you, the  _ sheltered little prince _ in his _ sheltered little castle _ , know about what’s going on? This isn’t recent, Sasuke. This has been going on for years, for  _ decades  _ if not since the beginning of the Mangekyou reign. Have you walked through the city once, without a fucking  _ crown  _ atop your head, huh? Have you heard the people? Have you  _ felt  _ them?  _ Nowhere  _ is safe for you--  _ Everyone wants you dead _ , Sasuke, why can’t you fucking understand that? Orochimaru doesn’t work for the Uchiha, you know, he works for  _ power _ . The Uchiha are just a name on a  _ wanted list  _ now, don’t you get that? Staying there, staying  _ anywhere  _ that has people who can depict you as the prince of the fucking Mangekyou Kingdom, will lead to your  _ death, you know _ !” 

 

Sasuke snorts, viciously. “Tch, look at that. Now that Naruto fucking Namikaze is a _big_ , _strong knight_ , he thinks he understands how the entire fucking world operates. Hn, look at you, Naruto, all _grown up_ and _wise_. What, picked up a dictionary for once and found a word you thought look cool, yeah? Now you think that you are the next fucking _Coming of Jesus_ , because you can preach about bullshit politics for _thirty seconds_? Impressive, what an _inspirational_ young man the newest _Knight of the Crimson Guard_ is!” 

 

“Oh, fuck you, you stupid bastard! Don’t you see I’m saving your fucking life?” The Namikaze scowls, grabbing the collar of the now-peasant cloak wrapped around the dark-haired male's body. In caution of running into anyone, Kakashi had ordered that the blond change both himself and his best friend into ‘less flashy’ attire. 

 

Quick to react, as always, Sasuke is instantly kicking his compatriot onto the white mud, a dark hiss escaping his lip as Naruto brings himself to stand up from the ground with a fist aimed at the Uchiha’s face, his body now wetted from the ice pressed against his own clothes. There’s some struggle as the pair battle for control but, just as they’re beginning to draw their swords, a black stallion is up on its hind legs centimetres away from their faces, neighing. The knight scolds himself for not noticing sooner, for a dark figure in such an openly bright setting would even be obvious to an untrained child. 

 

“Woah, easy boy!” A voice comforts.

 

As the horse does exactly so, coming to place its hooves onto the ground inches from the boys, the hood falls from the person’s head, revealing a woman with the strangest hair either of the two men have ever seen. 

 

It’s long, swaying elegantly in the whispering air, in beautifully coral waves that cascade down to the female’s prominent waist. Naruto wishes to slide his fingers through it, just to be able to say that he’s touched silk so soft that it felt like he’d grasped the clouds from the heavens and brought them down upon the earth, but that thought quickly evaporates at the sight of sage diamonds. Thick lashes frame feminine eyes, concealing within them the colour of spring itself; the Namikaze has never seen anything so vibrant, so gorgeous in his entire seventeen years of existence. 

 

Delicate features twist in disgust, surprisingly, as if the cherry-haired angel has stumbled across scavengers threatening to devour her, as she mumbles something incoherent under her breath, secretive enough that neither the prince nor the knight can hear it. With a pull of her reins, the horse springs back to life, readying itself for the journey to come, and she straightens the crumples of her cloak out with mild boredom; She’s so beautiful that Naruto finds himself wishing for her companionship without even a verbal exchange, although he doubts someone like her could ever keep as bad company as his real companion.

 

Sakura knows the horse is growing tired, for he’s been travelling for days without much halting, but she’s always been good at faces, and that idiotic grin before her definitely belongs to one of the newly appointed knights in Mangekyou. The man next to him, however, only distantly resembles a face she can’t quite recall as of current, so she just brushes him aside. Without wanting to stay here for much longer, she’s about to send the horse on its way when that stupid knight has to call out to her. 

 

Rolling those swollen eyes, she hisses internally.  _ Typical _ . 

 

“Hey! You’ve got a horse!” He exclaims like he’s just figured out how to cure whatever disease her mother had, and she resists the urge to outwardly groan. 

 

Honestly, the Haruno just wants to get home and end all of the pain burning her organs alight, but life keeps prolonging her unbearable breaths-- She’d slice her gut open now, if that meant she wasn’t dishonouring her family’s wishes. Love is far stronger than her will to die, however, for she’d live eternally if it was by her mother or sister’s side; without them, however, she’s so close to falling into the abyss of the Reaper that she can almost taste the warmth of his inviting embrace.  _ Not long now _ , she keeps telling herself. She’ll be dead by the end of the week, thankfully. 

 

Regarding the men before her with distasteful eyes, she grunts rudely. “Lost, are we?” She asks sans of genuine intrigue, almost bitterly, but Naruto disregards the lack of gentleness under the veil of her beauty. He feels as if his winter troubles have been melted by the spring of her those forest, dog-day eyes, if only for a moment before he recollects himself. Sobering, he remembers where he is and why he’s here.

 

Tucking a lock behind her ear, the woman lifts her gaze from the blond, who is covered in gashes and bruises no doubt from the fight she just interrupted, to the other man-- He’s no more attractive, she admittedly decides, for they’re so different that it seems almost unfair to compare them to themselves, but she finds herself relating to the hardened glare of his dark eyes; he’s grieving, she thinks, but stops herself before she gets ahead of herself. Why waste time empathising with someone, when she’s going to be nothing but a lifeless corpse in just a few days? 

 

Ah, but Sakura Haruno has never had the best self control; A cold, painful black meets a withered-down, heartbroken green. 

 

The scowls on both of their faces slip from their features for a single second, as they meet penetrating stares, as if sharing an understanding in that mere moment, a sombering expression mirrored on each of their parted mouths. It lasts only a for breath, one sole breath, and yet it’s  _ magnetising _ \-- addictive, almost, in a manner that has goosebumps crawling up the female’s arms, and a heart stopping in the male’s chest. In that instance, there is no future nor past, no chaos in their cities nor blood spilling from their hearts, no other men nor women; just two people, without purpose and need, just simply existing. It’s blissful, it’s the beginning of summer, it’s the tranquility of a gentle breeze, it’s a suffocatingly wonderful feeling in the gel of their bones. 

 

And then, Sakura remembers to breathe.

 

Tearing the widened eyes of emerald from the male beneath her, she grips tighter onto the reins of the horse and regains composure, oxygen filling her lungs once again as the other one, the one she can look at without feeling the world still, offers her his blindingly bright grin. “We are, as a matter of fact. Do you know where the nearest town is? I feel like we’ve been aimlessly wandering for hours now,”

 

She suspects they have, for the nearest cluster of civilisation is north, in the direction they’ve been walking from, which is at least four hours on foot from here. Out of the bitterness of her aching heart, she wants to simply ride off and leave them stranded or at the mercy of bandits, but another, larger part of her scolds her for such a thought, forcing pity to seep into the core of her stomach-- Damn her for being so compassionate! On the other hand, she might as well spend her final moments contributing to some good, for she hasn’t had many opportunities to do so beforehand. 

 

After weighing the pros and cons thoroughly in her head, the woman decides she doesn’t have it in her to be cruel. With a reluctant double-take at the eager face of the knight and the somewhat pained expression of his partner, she sighs, submitting. “I presume you do not wish to return north, meaning the nearest would be…” The girl pauses, drawing a map in the midsts of her mind. “... the Blood Mist Village-- But that would never do if you wish to see tomorrow, and so, you will have to travel south-east to  Sejimura, which is four days from here on horseback,” 

 

The man she doesn’t fully recognise speaks for the first time, the rasp in his voice beckoning trembles to dance across her spine. He seems bored, in all honestly, and he feels it. “That will not do. What is this Blood Mist Village you speak of?”

 

The green-eyed woman wants roll her eyes, internally cursing the male bravado, before smirking with a sinister air. If pretty-boy wants to get himself killed, then so be it-- She might have a guilty conscience for a few hours, but she’ll be freed of that with the freeing of her soul; complying carelessly, she enlightens them. “It is a village south-west from here, at most a seven hour walk, known for its beautiful nature reserves. If you can find yourself an inn, it can be quite a pleasant stay,” 

 

Sasuke spares his best friend a glance, noticing the slight upturn of his lips and the eagerness in his vividly cerulean eyes. It’s decided then. Casting a glare to the mysterious pink-haired maiden, dressed in a dark fur cloak and thick boots, he watches her with a keen interest; she seems well-educated, at least, so she’s most likely of nobility, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a horse so calm under the touch of a rider, as if it’s more an extension of her than a separate entity. Thinking long and hard on it, the Uchiha decides she definitely isn’t of nobility; she’s too rough around the edges, fierce and eccentric to be one of the ladies of higher class. 

 

Superficially, he suppose the woman is attractive, but the prince thinks there’s certainly something more there-- Something entrancing, almost-- that sets her far and wide from the other women he’s ever seen before. It’s a distant feeling, fleeting he’d even argue, so he brushes aside the magnetism of those harsh eyes, claiming that, under those eyelashes, he only sees himself reflecting back at him. No one could ever understand him, he’s certain. 

 

With a light to his eyes that hasn’t been there for days, he clears his throat. “Take us there and I will supply you and your family with a large sum of money,” 

 

It’s not that he expected her to jump at the chance of riches, for she certainly doesn’t seem the type, but it’s that he could’ve never predicted the loathing that flashes across those firm features; anger, boiling anger, clenches perfectly white teeth together, grinding them in a furious glower as she tugs at the rope around her equine ally’s neck. “Money holds no value to my death-kissed life, fool. Offer me the mercy of relinquishing my sins or perform necromancy on the ones I have lost, and then, and only then, will I even consider assisting you, “

 

A reflection of himself she indeed is, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so desperate for death as she looks. When observing the woman, the Uchiha had brushed passed the scarlet hue in the body of her sage eyes, the stale downturn of her lips stuck impossibly still, the unnatural paleness of her otherwise reddened skin; she’s dying, be it metaphorically, spiritually, physically, proverbially, figuratively. The coolness of the weather resides in her skin, he can tell, despite the warmth of the fur that wraps tightly around the swallowed-up figure of hers. He suspects that she can’t even feel its warmth. 

 

Naruto, beside him, blurts out, characteristically sans thought, “Then please, let me be the atonement of your sins,” 

 

There’s a pause. 

 

There’s a momentary digestion of what’s been said, before the woman lets out a shockingly warm laugh. 

 

“You are proud,” She tells him, and Sasuke thinks the tenderness in her words suits her far more than the salutation of death, “I can appreciate that, for I cannot recall the last time I felt pride, but I think I have long been untainable to the grasp of salvation. I will guide you there, on one condition,” 

 

The Uchiha snorts, more out of habit than anything, attracting that unrelenting spring gaze to the passive eyes that stare out to the animal. He ignores the sensation the tickles the tips of his fingers with feathery touches, and instead redirects his glance to the blond. Naruto takes no notice of this, however, far too mesmerised by the being risen by a dark horse, in a manner that has Sasuke questioning his fickleness-- The Namikaze watches her as if she put the stars in the sky, and yet he’s known her for ten minutes. 

 

With a sigh, he lifts his eyes once again, taken back to find them still boring into him. The Uchiha coughs, uncomfortably. “Which is what?” He asks, as if to distract himself. 

 

Only, a distraction could never be so heavy, so cumbersome as to weigh down the organs within him, unlike everything about this enigmatic woman; The words, for some reason, beat the air out of his lungs. 

 

“Do not, no matter what happens, attempt to  _ save _ me.” 

 

Sakura shuts her eyes. Sasuke just thinks it’s her heart that she’s shutting. Naruto stops breathing altogether. 

 

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

 

_ When she had been just thirteen-years-old, Sakura Haruno fell victim to the barbarity of the infamous Blood Mist Village. She’d been sent to labour for one of the nobles of the north, and it had been a task she was unable to refuse; it paid well, but it also took her away from the lifeless body of her mother-- A mother who had degraded herself by suffocating her own throat with the strangle of despair, murdering any form of light within her soul. When the girl had looked upon the elder woman, all she had seen was a skeleton with dull, sunken eyes and a sickeningly thin face. There was no parent within the mounds of her flesh, nor was there even a person.  _

 

_ And, if her mother had been a village, the girl imagined her to be that village; it was cold and eerily quiet. That hadn’t been something new, however, but there was something about that coldness that was particularly nefarious, particularly evil. It was cold like the a simple winter, of course, and yet it was also cold like a corpse, void of all essence and joy and existence. Winter contained life despite its deathly kiss, but that place-- that place contained raw, unsaturated evil. If Sakura had to have compared it to Hell, the Blood Mist Village would have been far worse. _

 

_ Hell possessed heat, however scorching and deadly, whilst that awful town birthed no life, no warmth nor nature; it was a spectrum of grey, not even black, consisting of lifeless people with lifeless eyes and lifeless smiles. Despite the blood, there were no shades of crimson or wine, no scarlet tints or vermillion hues-- Just an ashy, charcoal grey hidden in everything; hidden beneath the wooden floorings of those tiny cottages, hidden under the dirt that pathed the land it resided on, hidden above the frowns of those bitter villagers, hidden amongst the starless skies and hidden within the fog that lay thickly upon the air.  _

  
  


_ For the three months she lived there, the little girl’s eyes grew tainted with that same graphite tinge, as the world she once saw painted with golden glimmers of sunlight and pure ivory layers of tulle, was dyed with morbid strokes of pencil. With each passing day, she found herself resembling her mother more and more, found her light burning out with the palettes she once admired every dawn, found the meaningless routine of existence. At thirteen years of age, the little girl thought that the hands she once saw as a blood red, had been nothing but a cold grey; at thirteen years of age, she grew indifferent to death. _

 

_ Corpses had littered the ground, as if the whole area was a single, open graveyard, but it only took a few days to become accustomed to pungent stench of rot , Sakura learned; the vivid images that haunted her at night, however, took years to pass, even with the assistance of nonchalance she had gained to such an event. Wherever she had gone, wherever she went, there would always be death. She felt cursed, as if, in her veins, she carried the plague-- As if she infected men with that insatiable lusting to kill, and it bore a cruel guilt to reside deep within her gut.  _

 

_ A tall man, with bandages covering his darkened skin, had been the first kind person she had encountered in that land; he’d be vicious and somewhat savage, sharp teeth protruding from his gums and small irises amongst a sea of bloodshot white, but he’d helped her, along with an orphan she’d befriended. Zabuza had been his name, although she thought the epithet of ‘Demon’ suited him quite well, too. Haku, the orphan, seemed to worship at his feet, however, hanging off of every word he uttered and treating him as if he were the saviour of the world. In truth, Sakura supposed that the Demon’s feelings were far more mutual than he let on.  _

 

_ “Master Zabuza said he’s gone to take care of something, but I’m scared, Sakura. What if another man attacks us again?” And, honestly, another man would always have his sword at the ready, his blade bloodthirsty and his smirk cruel. Zabuza had been renowned for his power and his ability with his blade, but even his name couldn’t halt the devouring stares they received-- hungry, thirsty stares that could only be satisfied by murder. The pair of children, although the rosette had been beginning to feel herself tug at the ribbons of womanhood, woke up wondering whether they would live to the next day, each every time they opened their corrupted eyes. _

 

_ Sakura had held the younger boy close, stroking the pale child’s long locks, in a manner that she had always wished her own mother would. “It’ll be alright, I promise you, I won’t let anyone hurt you,” She had whispered into the shell of his ear, softly and soothingly. Haku had only quivered in response, burying his nose into the creamy flesh of the female’s neck.  _

 

_ Whilst they battled for their lives, they also battled against the burning pain of starvation; Sakura had felt her arms and figure shrinking, as if, with each passing day, she had moulted the muscle and fat beneath her skin away. She ate infrequently, stealing from the nobility she had been sent to serve, but she’d be punished in ways so tortuous that she mostly felt like she’d rather starve; she did it anyway, for Haku. He had already been so thin when the girl had met him, bruised and weak, that she had thought he’d crumble beneath her touch if she were to reach out, and so she’d sacrifice her own meals without second thought. In the three months she’d been with him, she had felt as if God had sent her another sibling.  _

 

_ Only, it seemed as if she wasn’t supposed to have any siblings, for, one day, they were separated.  _

 

_ It had been at the stroke of midnight, when Sakura and her brother had been huddled together for warmth that seemed impossible. The boy had been asleep on her shoulder, and she’d been continuously drifting in and out of conscience, as if anticipating something to happen-- And happen something did. A man, clad in a black tunic and with hair as white as his own scarf, had bolted down the door of the cottage they’d snuck into, his icy eyes illuminated by the moon rear of him. His smile had been menacing, the object of the little girl’s nightmares for years to come, and smeared with blood, as if he’d just eaten the carcass of another person. Haku had startled awake, screaming at the top of his lungs; Sakura hadn’t blamed him, to be honest, for she would have too if her voice box hadn’t closed in on itself.   _

 

_ He’d chuckled at that-- at the fear paralysing the tiny body of a child-- as if he had relished in the thought of it. With that same bloodthirsty aura of seemingly everyone in that forsaken village, he’d pried the two apart, viciously whispering into the little girl’s ear: “Tomorrow, you go home, so let us have some fun tonight, my dear child,”  _

 

_ Haku had protested in a horrified shout, wailing out in desperation, reaching for the hem of her dirtied dress as if to pull her back. It had been to no avail, however, for the man had simply kicked aside the boy’s hand and positioned the girl in his two arms, so he was carrying her as if she was to be his bride. **He’d done things to her that night that should have only been done to the his bride, to his lover, but his brutality certainly held no qualities to suggest she meant as such to him. Instead, she’d been scarred forever by her employer, a noble who practically owned the Blood Mist Village.That night, a part of her soul had been stolen from her, robbing her of her virtue and shattering her heart into thousands of pieces.** _

 

_ She would take his name with her to the grave, however. She’d never forget those cruel syllables she had been forced to utter: _

 

_ Mangetsu Hozuki.  _

 

_ The next day, she was gone and Haku had been pushed to the back of her mind, alike to the rest of her time there. After that, she had forgotten the reason she’d strived so hard to exist in the first place.  _

  
  



	4. The Bronze of Morning

It's exactly as she remembers it; The village, that is, with its simple yet uninviting architecture, its characteristically monotone skies and the sheer dread of its occupants. It's just as bitter, numbing the tips of her fingers, just as malevolent.

"This place is, er, really cold," Naruto tries, as if uncertain, his gaze scanning the unkind glowers aimed at the trio. With each step they take down the street, three new people turn to face them with disdain.

The pinkette nods, somewhat used to the cruel scowls; the familiarity of it causes shivers to crawl up the woman's arms. It hasn't changed at all, not even with the droughts and the storms and the recent mutiny, and that in itself terrifies her; how lifeless must a place be to remain immortally indifferent?

She's walking ahead of them, just by a handful of paces, not bothering to face the pair behind her when she speaks. "No colder than the north. In honesty, the climate is actually warmer here,"

"I doubt he was referring to the climate," The Uchiha comments, not unaware of the lack of joy that hangs like a thick ooze in the air. Even he, a relatively cold man himself, can sense the rime frozen atop the villagers' heads, their hearts so cold that the points of their noses are reddened, the frost on their cheeks as sharp as blades. He feels those very blades pierce at his courage.

The woman, who he still hasn't traded titles with, turns to regard him with intrigue. Somehow, he has this embedded feeling that she wants to burn away her identity- maybe it's that blatant wish for death in those pained eyes that tell him, maybe it's the way she holds her cloak so tightly over the delicate features of her face and the eccentricity of her maine, so tightly that her fingers whiten with the force, or maybe, in the core of his being, he just relates to her; maybe it's that he, too, wishes to slice his skin from the bones of his body, to wear another's coating and walk in another man's shoes.

She offers a polite smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but one that doesn't have him doubting the genuinity of it nonetheless, "No, I suppose you are right, but how strange it is that we tremble more furiously in a warmer land, do you not think so?"

"Ah," He acknowledges, and Naruto beside him is nodding his head passionately; his best friend has definitely taken a liking to their newest comrade, to an extent that it seems as if a parting will be difficult.

"Hey, how about we get to know each other a bit better?" The said best friend suggests, despite the fact that they've already done that repeated questioning four times on the journey here. Sasuke stifles a sigh, but reconsiders when he recollects that Naruto had done ninety-five percent of the talking, Sasuke the other five and the woman had remained absolutely lip-tight. She'd simply smiled at the blond's enthusiasm and nodded along to the prince's court, specially chosen words. She, herself, had only said vague, off-topic statements that were seemingly inspired from known proverbs.

Sasuke rolls his eyes. "Read the situation, dobe," He sniggers, sans any real malice, just loud enough that it reaches the  _dobe's_ ears and his ears alone. It'd be teasing if the Uchiha was even slightly more playful. The blond sends him a perplexed narrowing of his bright eyes. "Hn, she clearly holds no interest in getting to know you, nor myself, for that matter," He informs.

Regardless, Naruto shifts his gaze to smile brightly at the back of the woman's head, loudly beckoning her. "Hey, hey, what's your name, lady?"

Sasuke rolls his eyes once again. The other male has tried to pry it from her more times than he can count on his fingers, already. Does this boy have no dignity? She clearly has no intent to share her name- And it's a good thing she doesn't, really, for otherwise Naruto might blurt out their own in response, and it had been Naruto himself to scold Sasuke for being so obvious. Well, he supposes the blond wouldn't actually, as he really is much more intelligent than he lets on, but the Uchiha takes comfort in comparing him to the boy aged seven, when they first met.

"I no longer have such a thing," She tells them and, honestly, the darker-haired man isn't surprised. He suspected so, in actuality.

Naruto, ever the persistent beacon of light, shakes his head violently, coming to twist the female round by her wrist, so she's now halted in face of them. Keen eyes don't miss the way she flinches at the contact, her arm instantly snapping back from the boy's grasp. Before she manages to hiss out an aggressive accusation, however, Naruto's warm gaze is boring into her with an intensity that even Sasuke would squirm under. "Don't say that," He seems to have taken a personal offense from her words, as if she's just insulted everything he stands for, "Everyone has such a thing- I'm Naruto,"

She regards him with a considering tilt of her head, vivid eyes shifting up and down his features as if she's searching for something- Perhaps for genuinity, for a hint that his heart is truly in his words. Sasuke knows they are, as there is no one more genuine than the man beside the Uchiha monarch, but he also understands why her irises come alive with wonderous skepticality and curiosity. Like this, she looks even prettier, he has no doubt that Naruto is thinking it, and he supposes he wouldn't disagree either.

"There are exceptions to every rule, Naruto. Mind you, I once was no such exception- Like you, I too had a name, but, tell me, what is a name when standing before the gates of hell? Do you think that the Reaper would spare anyone of anything, just for syllables that depict their existence?" Here she goes again, belittling her physical form by twisting her words back round into the fact that she'll soon be a corpse. Sasuke doesn't believe in such a thing, for it seems like necromancy and fiction, but his mind still engraves her references to hell into his very skull.

Naruto makes a conflicted face, clearly disagreeing, but he's never been one to go back on his word; he promised he wouldn't attempt to change her mind, and so he won't. Instead, he lets out at an exhausted sigh, continuing in his stride. "Well, then what do we call you?"

On his heel, the Uchiha and their newest companion are now following, and a few seconds pass as the woman contemplates his words. Her eyebrows are furrowed together, Sasuke almost going as far as to say it's uncharacteristically  _ordinary_ from the corner of his eye, and that distant gaze clearly suggests her wandering thoughts. Eventually, she seems to reconstruct herself, regaining that hardened exterior once again.

"Hanako," She offers eventually, and the pair are unsure what to make of it, "Please, address me only as Hanako, for it is the only identity I remember, the only identity I can recall as I am now,"

The dark-haired male considers this, intrigued. "As you are now, huh? And how would that be? Cowardly? Withered down and brokenhearted? Tch, desperate for death? If this Hanako is all you can recall, then why do you recall such a pitiful form?"

There's a pause, and his words even take himself by surprise. Their walking, however, doesn't even hinder, the thick atmosphere doing nothing to the consistent pacing of their feet. In fact, the silence holds no discomfort nor alert, only simple digestion and thoughtfulness; the stranger absorbs his words with kind tolerance, he notices, and not with immediate disregard like he'd expect. She truly is a conundrum- A labyrinth replaces the wires of her mind and loses him with each action of her body, the enigma that is the female before him overwhelming his usual ability to scrutinise. He's rendered speechless, in fact, left confused and helpless.

He hates it.

"I suppose I cannot say that any of those words are wrong, as there is at least some truth to each of them, but I can say that who or what I recall has nothing to do with any of them as well. My cowardice will not constrict my memories, nor will my weak heart forget the only integrity I have ever been bestowed. As a parting gift in my wake, regardless of whether I am worthy of it or not, title my horizontal body as such, and allow me that final mercy," Her words are cryptic, but he comprehends the pain she exuberates with ease. "Whoever I once was, whoever I am at present, whoever I will be in my final moments- Can you really stand before my crumbling figure and say that they correspond? That I was born as one person, and will be that person beyond the grave? I am afraid that there is no such certainty, Naruto, and that identity is fleeting if not ever-evolving, and so, if I can, I will wear another's skin and erase the hauntings of what my life contained. Please, allow me that final mercy, I beg of you, and ask no more of the days that have fled already, the days that have been out-shined by the life of Hanako,"

They don't stop moving, not even at that.

Due to different reasons, however, for neither of the males can tear themselves from the looping trance of  _right-foot-left-foot-right-foot-left-foot_ , struck wordless by the weight of that stranger's saddened words. Naruto can't imagine losing sense of himself so deeply, to a point where even his name is worthless, but he can comprehend her reasoning; she's grieving, for a reason he'll probably never know, but he knows grief. He knows what it can do, he knows how toxic and deadly it is, and he's seen it do things far beyond the evil of the devil. He's seen it kill, he's seen it torture, he's seen it drive minds to insanity, he's seen it burn down buildings and he'd first-hand experienced it numb every sensation in his body- he knows grief, as if it's a distant childhood friend he hasn't really seen in a few years, but he knows its ins-and-outs like he knows Sasuke's.

In contrast, the dark-haired male feels the air leave his lungs, ruthlessly be beaten out, and abandon him for extended periods as his control slips from his fingertips. When it finally returns in a gasp, after almost an entire minute, the cooling in his organs does nothing to the sudden  _fire_ setting his flesh ablaze. Instead, the man feels his heart palpitate with inconsistent beats, syncopating with the constant pounding in his temples, and his veins bulge erratically and furiously beneath his skin. Nausea entraps his stomach in a tight fist, unforgiving and unrelenting, but the chord struck by her words is foreign, intoxicating his brain with agitation and helplessness alone and no understanding. He's experienced grief, of course, but he thinks little of her grief- he acknowledges it, maybe even comprehends it, but he doesn't know it, nor understand it, like his other companion.

Unsurprisingly, the other companion is the first to speak. "Okay," He tells the woman, firmly and without a syllable of unwavering, a kind smile painted upon his gentle features. "It's nice to meet you, Hanako, I'm Naruto, and I hope we can get along well,"

Hanako, or so she says or so Sasuke is willing to surrender, offers back her own smaller smile, sans the blond's extremity, with a polite nod of her head. Hair ruffles to ever-so-slightly peek out from her hood, and the monarch isn't exactly sure why he's taking note of it. "Naruto, and your friend, we have arrived. You are no longer in need of my assistance, I have fulfilled my bargain and will be leaving you now. Stay alive, I beg of you, however contradictory I may be to ask so,"

Panic flickers across the Namikaze's face, the desperation in his eyes so painfully obvious that the darker haired spectator has to avidly make an effort not to roll his eyes. He shares his desperation, though to a much lesser degree, not particularly wishing to allow another body to fall before him. In fact, some part of his mind argues that this woman is one of his people, too, and that he'd be sinning as a prince to ignore her blatant calls for help. On the other hand, he hears no blatant calls for help.

"W-wait!" The blond tries, manically, clearly scouring his mind for an excuse to prolong the woman's stay. "We need an escort!" He attempts, but instantly flinches at his own choice of words. "No! Not an  _escort_ escort, but an escort to help us! We need a guide, Hanako! You seem well versed, and well, er, there's no rush to return to wherever you were going, you know.. So, er, how about it? Please?"

The female lets out a confused chuckle, overwhelmed, but quickly allows the largest smile she's worn yet to grace her lips. It softens the vibrant shade of her irises, and yet certainly doesn't decrease her beauty, crinkling the corners of her eyes and beckoning dimples to crater just slightly up of her full lips. Sasuke likes how it looks, far more than any other expression he's seen yet, but chooses to ignore the pool of heat that ignites in his gut. The woman, Hanako, regards the pair with a somewhat nostalgic look, if the Uchiha's ever known one, before allowing her pearl teeth to once again hide behind her pinkest flesh. "I am afraid that I cannot do so, dear Naruto, but know that your words warm my heart with a fiery intensity, and that I shall carry them in my odyssey to the afterlife with great fondness,"

"Just one day," Naruto insists pleadingly, "One single day, that's all I ask,"

Well, it's not like she should've expected that to work. Sasuke knows his best friend far better than any other body in the entire Mangekyou Kingdom, yet even a stranger could feel the stubbornity that odours from the blue-eyed male's skin, and she should be no exception. Feeling sympathy for him now, or perhaps it's crueller and instead pity, the monarch decides to interject. "Hn, Naruto, that is quite enough. She gave us her conditions, and it is unlike you to disrespect them. Remember your place, dobe, remember your honour, and respect this maiden,"

"But-"

Sasuke shakes his head with a slight toxicity in the whisp of his hair. " _Naruto_ , stop. This is unlike you,"

It isn't. The Uchiha knows the lengths his companion would go to in order to save another's life, but he also knows what words have affect on him; any suggestion that he's going back on his word, and the only son of Minato Namikaze is putty in one's palm. The prince regrets allowing her to leave, for he doesn't at all support her wish, but he knows that look, and he knows that there's nothing the pair can do. She's already dead, despite the beating heart in her chest, and she knows it herself.

"Forgive me," She smiles, wistfully, "I thank you, dear Naruto, but I must part with you. Please, avoid engaging with these people, do not approach them and pray that they do not approach you, for they are dangerous. Live on, far passed the era of treason, and live on in content. You are both very kind, I thank you for your efforts, but I will be going now. Good bye, and I wish you well,"

Before either of the men can utter another word, she's gone, like a gust of air has carried her far away. Naruto's heart aches. His first mission as a knight, and he's allowed a woman marked by death to walk from within his grasp, allowed her to twist a knife into her flesh and bid the world farewell. After a few silent minutes pass, he turns to glare at the man beside him, anger fuelling the first that connects with the Uchiha's face.

The attacked man reaches for his cheekbones, caressing the reddened patch of his porcelain cheeks. It burns, as if the blood there has been set alight, a stark contrast the cold air that numbs the surrounding surface of his features. He's a few feet further away from the blond, now, as a result of that punch, and it takes him a few seconds to completely digest his change in position.

"What the fu-"

His cheek is struck again, cutting him off, this time with so much force that his face is now to its side. Bringing the same hand up to the same cheek, he turns his head once again to face the Namikaze.

"How  _dare_ you?" The male hisses, hand still horizontal in the air, voice low like a warning. "She's going to die, you know, and it's all your fucking fault. She could've changed her mind, she could've found a purpose, and you fucking ruined it. You let an innocent woman die, Sasuke, all because you don't give a fuck about anyone but yourself. We could've fucking saved someone's life, an innocent person's life, and you fucked it all up for us, as per fucking usual. You ruin everything you touch, you selfish bastard. You're a fucking curse. She was innocent, she didn't do anything but be born in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you let her die. You, Sasuke Uchiha, let her die. You-"

"Will you stop?" The Uchiha sighs, exasperated, "You are a fool, a complete and utter fool. 'Innocent' you say. Tch, you knew that woman for mere hours, her livelihood and life kept hidden from both of us, and yet  _you_ dare to make such claims? That woman was not going to change or find or do anything, Naruto, she has lost sense of herself,"

But Naruto doesn't halter. Instead, he pushes on, angrily. "Then we could've found her, teme. You give up so easily, don't you see that? It makes my blood  _boil_!"

 _Damn his stubbornness_. It infuriates the monarch to no end, sometimes making  _his_ own blood boil, but he's almost used to it after their years of friendship, now able to simply turn away and walk on. He does just that, choosing to carry on down the street they've been walking down for the past twenty minutes, not even checking to see if his partner is following behind him. Having been so absorbed in their prior exchange, he'd forgotten about the stares and vicious remarks, but now they are a flare tainting his vision with stained blotches as if he's just been gazing directly into the sun that he hasn't seen in weeks. They hunt his moving form, glowers piercing his skin with an unbearable pressure, and suddenly he's hyper aware of the clothes clinging to his body.

Despite his uncharacteristic nervousness, he presses on. His pacing is consistent and remarkably composed, each foot firmly landing on the dirt of the mud road, mirroring the pounding of his blaring headache in a perfect, steady beat. Thoughts linger aimlessly across his mentality, but he tries his best to ignore each and every one, instead focusing on the pattern of his limbs, swaying in time with his heart, with his head, with his feet. Every sound and motion in his body is that same rhythm- one, two. One, two. Slow, regular, and curiously in harmonious sync with his plastic facade. He applauds himself.

For as long as the man can, he forces himself to brush aside the bitter taste in his mouth, that's clogging up his glands and drying his throat. He tries, he really does, but it only takes a single breath of hesitation before he recalls his best friend's words. ' _You, Sasuke Uchiha, let her die.'_ They're the lyrics to his verse, the one that plays a melody with the bulging of his temples, and, as if sensing a reason to be more interesting, his heartbeats grow erratic and scared. Suddenly, he is an entire song. He is a bridge, he is a verse, he is a chorus; his head is the strong, powerful bass, his heart is the offbeat, clumsy bellow of a piano key, his steps are the accelerating, confused strums of a harp. ' _You ruin everything you touch.'_  Ah, he supposes he does; his sanity, his kingdom, that woman- his friend knows him best, but he knows himself better, and he agrees. He does ruin everything, with those calloused, terrified hands of his. He is a curse, a plague, a disease born to a kingdom drowned in chaos.

It's in his blood.

His dirty, selfish Uchiha blood. He's heard his family be referred to as thieves many times in his life, as heartless criminals hell bent on destroying the very structure of the world, heard himself be referred to as the spawn of cruel dictators and demons sent from the within the gates of hell themselves. He's been spat upon, stared upon with hate-filled eyes, given epithets that were intended to break everything they could of him, but he's been raised to ignore it. It's just that, when it comes from himself, he isn't sure how to discount that foul taste in his larynx.

Well,  _who said he had to learn now?_

With refined and timeless composure, he reverts to the steady and calm walking of his feet, as if within him there isn't a storm brewing.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

Sakura hyperventilates, feeling hands wrap themselves around her neck. She can't breathe, she can't think, she can't even exist. Gasps beg the oxygen she's banishing to return, but the tears falling from the corners of her eyes take up too much energy for her to heed the warning. Instead, the woman contemplates the absence of essence within her, considering how it feels to momentarily forget the palpitations of her organs, almost enjoying the hollowness burning the interiors of her flesh. The contours of her body sting, as if bees are dancing above the bed of her bones and as if needles are pirouetting across her pale skin, but she finds pleasure in how the pain tap-dances in her marrows, taking joy in the nerves no longer numbed, but that are instead screaming.

It's this place.

It suffocates her.

Every stare is hauntingly familiar, lingering far longer than mere seconds, engraving horrifying stories into her very cells, and she hates it. She hates the sensation of eyes watching—  _always_  watching— that makes her skin crawl, makes her skin tingle and hiss in anticipation. She hates that her pores fill with irritation, sending a vicious itchiness across her entire figure, and she hates that she can't stop her fingernails from digging into them. She hates feeling weak, like she's defenceless all over again, but she knows it's not far from the truth; she is defenceless, especially in this town, and especially in her current state of mind. At current, the will to fight has long been extinguished.

"How many years has it been, my dear?" He asks as if they're old friends, as if they're simply relatives distanced by a difference in location, as if he's not the man who ruined her.

The woman sighs despite the earthquakes in those prickly goosebumps, inhaling deep and heavy breaths into her lungs with a choreographed effort. Not quite bringing herself to meet his eyes, she smiles tightly. "It has been many indeed," The tone of her voice is far more stable than she expected it to be, the female mentally rejoices, but she thinks her trembling hands give her away regardless. "Perhaps five? Maybe four? I would not be able to tell you,  _Mangetsu_ , but I can assure you that I recall the time  _vividly_ ,"

He only laughs darkly at that, eyes gazing across her shivering limbs hungrily. When they bore into the woman's collarbone, Sakura's knees are on the verge of buckling, weakened by that stare of unbearably intense lust. Her stomach lurches. Before her is a truly putrid man with an immoral mind and a wicked sense of injustice, born with rich blood and rich titles and rich lands, made of privilege and unconditional authority. His hands are large and covered in blisters, rough to the touch, almost scalding against her arms, but his face has a feminine elegance to it, his eyes cat-like and his nose aristocrat thin— Violet petals, shiny and indisputably beautiful, peak out through long, wispy lashes, omniscient in the way they glimmer. He's revolting, foul even, but she finds it hard to hate that lavender colour, a colour that seems to have been bled from velvet linens and the final kiss of dusk. When they shift with heat, however, tinting to a shade so deep it's almost black, disgust twists her heart with ease.

"I did not mean-" She instantly begins when her mind pieces together the incentive of his cackle, but it falters in her mouth with a distasteful dryness. His palms are suddenly on her forearms. The woman feels as if she's been tainted, something reminiscent of a disease spreading through every fibre of her being. Oh, how she loathes him. "Mangetsu, unhand me at once,"

Sakura speaks slowly, enunciating every letter with a desperate resolve, but she doesn't struggle nor fight or beg. Instead, the female stands impossibly still, feeling her chest expand and retract in sequence, as he takes her further into his arms; they're surprisingly frail, the rosette thinks, only scarcely relating to the brutishness of his demanding hands. They wrap around her with a foreign gentleness, which genuinely takes her by surprise, and never once exert any force to keep her captive in place. She considers that he has fully acknowledged her lack of spirit, understanding that he truly has all the power, but then she tries to recall if he was ever powerful to begin with. In truth, she thinks he never was, and that she had been the one that was just too weak.

"No," The man tells her, sharp-teethed grin wide on his face, mockingly, "But I must confess, my dear, you have grown rather attractive. You have certainly filled out-" The pause that follows as his eyes travel down her encourages the bile in her body to rise up, "And you have a maturity to you that many lack. I do like my women mature,"

Bravery momentarily overwhelms rationality.

"That surprises me. I thought you rather fond of infantry," The woman sniggers, unable to contain the bite brewing within her.

"Thirteen is hardly an infant,  _Sakura_ ," The male repsonds, and the use of her name has her flinching. It's said thickly and seductively, as if to entice the hatred boiling her organs into another form, but it's those syllables said together that has her heart stopping in its path; her name, one she's been so willing to part with, from the lips of her darkest past. It almost tempts the woman to struggle a little bit. She doesn't.

Mangetsu is walking away from her now, tilting his back to access the table near him, his hands suddenly busy pouring himself a beverage of some kind. It's a bronze liquid, though browner than ale, now in an oddly shaped glass in his fingers, one that's obviously quite expensive. They're in his house— manor, castle, villa, it's all the same to her— and she honestly wouldn't be able to tell even herself what overtook her to allow it to happen. She'd seen him, so familiar and eccentric all at once, outise of some tavern she can vaguely imagine now, and it was as if her soul had been beckoned into his clasp. They'd walked like old friends, sans conversation, up the hill just on the outskirts of that damned village, to architecture that seemed to be an otherworldly comparison to the Mist. She doesn't know why she did it, her mind a scrambled and disorganised mess, but she's certainly regretting it now.

He brings the glass to his lips, so ordinarily that it takes Sakura a moment to process the scene. As she speaks again, he nods into it with a hum, not bothering to place it back down until it's drained of every drop. "Thirteen is hardly of age, Mangetsu. Do you have no-"

"You are right," There's a soft thud as the drink hits the wooden surface, delicately, before he's pouring himself another. With a distance in his eyes, he brings it up to his face again, not quite looking at anything. "I must apologise, actually. I had been out of my mind at the time, although it is no excuse I am aware. Had I been another man, however, it would have been a far worse experience. I treated you well, Sakura, in relativity,"

"How  _dare_  you attempt to justify such a sinful act? You can beg for my forgiveness to your heart's content, you can drop to your knees if you wish, but you  _will_  go to hell and you  _will_  get your comeuppance," She seethes, disbelieving of the male's audacity. "I have been haunted by that night for years and years and  _years_ , yet you assume that I will crumble in your palms like some weak little child, pardoning your guilty conscience? You are right about one thing, Mangetsu, you  _are_  out of your mind,"

Silk hair, alabaster and completely stainless, finds gripping fingers. With one hand around his alcohol, and another pressing against his temples through fine tresses, he exhales a sigh. It makes her angrier, furious in fact, but she lets it go. It's been years, she's right, and although she is far from over it, she can feel a fire beginning to be relit beneath her ribcage, and the woman certainly can't have that. She's supposed to be okay with dying in just a few hours, but suddenly strength is allowing slouching bones to hold themselves pridefully upright, and her mind if filled with unwavering passion and goals and aspirations, biting at her blood vessels in an impatient howl. Suddenly, she's Sakura Haruno all over again.

"I do not expect you to pardon it, my angel, but I do wish you would halt your trembling and move on,"

She doesn't correct him. He's all sorts of wrong and all sorts of ignorant, not understanding even a single mitochondria of her makeup, let alone the complexity of her wandering thoughts, but she doesn't correct him. Instead, she idly allows him to change the subject to something trivial; it's a stupid subject, unimportant and a waste of time, but for some reason, it makes her feel more important and time-managed than she's felt in months.

She loathes him, despises every single aspect of his essence, but that hatred burns at her numbness in a proud and vicious  _sun_.

_She feels alive._

"Why are you here?" The aristocrat eventually asks, half an hour into a conversation that really is unnecessary. He's done basically all of the talking, although it's not as if that's a shock to anyone; she hasn't been talkative in a long time. By this point, they're both seated, opposite one another in finely-stuffed sofas and a table between them, Mangetsu thriving on a slight buzz. "You hate this place.  _I_  hate this place, in fact, and even the devil himself could never seduce you back here, so I must ask— Why  _are_  you here, Sakura?"

It takes the woman a moment of reflection to conjure an answer, the glass in her own hand kept stationary in her thought. Eventually, with a tilt of her head and a soft smile, she replies. "Well, I suppose the devil is a temptress, after all. I had been on my way to meet him with another method, actually, but it seems as if he simply invited me here, in a twist of fate. How strange the world works, hm?"

"How strange indeed," Mangetsu nods, with a slight drum of his throat.

"That reminds me, Mangetsu, I have a favour to ask of you," The woman announces, somewhat sheepishly, a strongly juxtaposed pair now a vivid painting behind her eyelids. She wonders how her momentary companions are at present, after a little over three hours in this wretched place, and if they're safe or regretful or bored out of their sanity. Some part of her wishes to see their faces again, to bid them farewell properly, although another struggles to distinguish their features from one another. What do they look like again? She'd been so caught up in her own thoughts, she hadn't really focused enough on their facial structures or their builds to commit them to memory.

The female remembers broad shoulders somewhere in their mix of limbs and muscles and jawlines, dark clothes and darker, light-defying eyes. Further in the midst of her mentality lies a vibrant smile, one so bright she'd wanted to engrave it into the very core of her soul, and a rasp that had sent shivers throughout all of her body. Even deeper, she recalls a moment; she recalls black eyes meeting her own, freezing every motion in existence and stopping time itself. It's a fleeting recollection, vague and save of any details, but it's there, and it's as present as the moon on the twenty-eighth day of its cycle. She remembers it like she remembers a sentimental childhood memory— distantly, but fondly enough that it's struck a chord within her.

"Anything for you, my princess,"

Ignoring the discomfortable that builds in the pit of her stomach at his pet name, Sakura presses on, not quite sure how to do this. "Well," The woman begins, weakly. "I came here with two others,"

"I see," He nods, chugging down a quarter of a glass of whiskey, indifferent. "Your mother and—?"

Anguish, although slight, seeps into Sakura's stomach, instantly replacing any discomfort. If she wasn't trying to ensure the complete and undeniable refuge of the men she had travelled here with, she may have even laughed. In the months she had stayed here, she had informed the Hozuki Family very little of her home life, but they had known of Mebuki through letters to report on her productivity and other minor arrangements. With a forced chuckle, the female deadpans a quick declination.

"No, I am afraid not. My mother is dead," It's said awkwardly, though neither really acknowledge that attribute, instead focusing on the inclination of her words. Mangetsu gapes, astounded.

"How—"

"It is not relevant," She interjects instantly, reverting to her prior topic. It's rushed and seems forced, she can feel it in her own voice, but that doesn't hinder her in the slightest. "More importantly, I need you to ensure my companions' safety,"

He pauses, mouth open and a conflicted noise extruding from his larynx. He allows the sound to hang in the air for a few seconds, drawn out and strangled, before beginning to fidget with the rim of his empty glass in consideration. It digs into the edges of his fingernails until he decides to make himself yet another drink, but he's clearly confused. In the end, the man lets out a frustrated grunt before swallowing an entire shot in one single breath. Wincing, he brings his eyes to rest on her cheekbones, intense. "I cannot," Mangetsu eventually says, but it's guilty and obviously a last resort. "I wish I could, my angel, honestly, but you know this village. It is a concoction of madness, brewed by dark men and bloodthirst. There are murderers and thieves and—"

"And rapists," She adds, coldly.

"And rapists," He reiterates with a huff, but even he knows the jibe is deserved. "I have no power here, my darling, and I cannot do anything beyond my capabilities, even when it concerns you. Forgive me,"

Sakura sighs, resting her back against the purple cushion as her gaze flicks to the ceiling. The female's neck finds the headboard of it quickly, but it's harder and lower down than she expected, and it strains her muscles in discomfort. With another sigh, she pulls herself up.

"You have been asking for my forgiveness more often that not, recently," She tells him, before pulling her weight to stand.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

Sasuke and Naruto arrive in a small tavern at exactly half past seven o'clock, shivering from the cold and growing impatient. This is the fourth inn they've tried, one that's almost on the outskirts of the village, and one of far poorer quality than the others— it's definitely a last resort, held together by a variation of different woods that certainly don't match, and the floor is cheap and creaky. In all of the Uchiha's life, he's never been in a building so near collapse, but he supposes he has also never been in a town so already collapsed by its own community.

Or lack of, anyway.

The man who greets— or, well, glares in acknowledgement at them, is an older man with dulled-scarlet facial hair and a thick, red maine. He has tanned skin, dotted with stray freckles that seem almost out of place on his otherwise blemish free coating, and a large, stark nose that is honestly the first thing the pair notice. Eyes are dark and pointed, accompanied by a monolid and sparse eyelashes, and they're too close to his sharp yet thin eyebrows, but he isn't unattractive. In fact, despite his ill temper, there's a slight curve to his larger, fuller lips, a slight inclination of a kind man with warm intentions and brilliant stories to tell. The blond immediately grins at him, feeling far more confident about this endeavour than the other four they have attempted.

"Hi," The Uzumaki calls out as they stop in front of his desk, ignoring the way the male's eyes wander across his body in judgement. "We're looking for a place to stay for a while, and this is honestly our last chance, so could you please help a fellow out?"

The innkeeper snorts, eyes narrowed and ever adventurous over his new customers. He brings his elbows onto the surface, leaning into Naruto's face and encouraging him closer, the back of his bigger body bending with an impressive level of flexibility. Naruto responds passionately, closing their distance to just a couple of inches, and it makes the spectator smirk when the elder man grimaces at their proximity. "No," The innkeeper announces loudly, through a deep voice that has clearly seen things. "We're full," He says, definitively.

Without a moment's hesitation, there's a thick sack of gold coins on the desk. Sasuke's cloak is slightly open by a limb, forearm parallel to the surface and elbow bent, his fingers still tight against the black fabric he's just pulled out. "Hn, I am sure you can make adjustments," It isn't suggestive, not in the slightest. It'd be considered an order if the travellers were not clinging to this man's shelter with every last fist of strength they can summit, but Naruto offers an unkind glower at his tone. The Uchiha simply scoffs, offended at his companion's inclination.

"Well, that's a large sum o' money," The innkeeper recounts, inspecting the object with blatant suspicion, but the darker haired male of all of them knows that he's considering it. With a minute nod, the monarch grunts.

"Please, we beg of you," Naruto pleads, more confident in his own tactics than that of a mercenary. His eyes are gentle, so warm that they defrost the hands of the room's occupants, but his voice, despite his words, is firm, powerful. "Out of the goodness of your heart, please, help us,"

If the innkeeper is about to respond, they don't hear it.

The tavern door slams open, incoherent screaming, which had been seeping in through the cracks of the walls anyway, now a blaring siren. A huge man steps forward, bandages and cuts covering his body like a second layer of skin, tanned pigmentation dyed a violent crimson. Pungent liquid, a deep wine shade, drops to the wooden planks like a storm— it's little at first, a few platters against the floor in a slight shower, but soon there's an ocean being crafted at this male's feet, the rasp is his voice thundering in what can only be described as agony. He's big. His head almost curves into the ceiling as he raises himself from a cower, towering above the other men, and his shoulders are so broad that each one contains their own longitude. Even Sasuke feels his hairs prick up at the sight.

Despite the wounds that reveal bone beneath his muscles, the stranger strides further into the room, unknowledgeable, or perhaps just indifferent, to the trail he leads behind him. Nonchalantly, he gazes up at the other males, as if gaging attributes neither of the migrants can determine, his small irises flickering up and down their torsos in mild interest— it's very mild, insultingly mild even, but the Uchiha doesn't quite have the bravery in him to feel offended. Instead, he watches in morbid fascination as the arrival smears blood across his own lips, with such a lackluster effort that the younger man almost feels ill.

Behind him, far more frantic, is a woman— or a young girl, maybe.

"Zabuza! Please, listen to me! You're hurt!" She yells in a voice that is not quite high enough to be feminine, a very slight gruffness to it, but it's panicked and eager and desperate nonetheless. "Zabuza! Listen to me, please! I'm begging you, stop these stupid bets!" She continues, and the onlookers see tears prick at the corners of the female's ridiculously long eyelashes. "Zabuza!" She keeps repeating, and it's honestly driving Sasuke to insanity.

Zabuza, however, or so the other stranger titles him, simply stares on to the innkeeper, monotonous. "Roshi," He greets, silencing the girl's whimpering instantly, "I hear you have news of Sakura. She's returned?"

The older man makes a conflicted noise, similar to the birds Sasuke used to hunt as a child, he thinks, and exhales deeply. "Well, rumours are rumours, Zabuza, but yeah, I've heard a word or two of a woman fitting her description at Mangetsu's. It's doubtful, though, you know how it is, but I've always found that there's some truth in—"

"That's crazy!" The younger woman explodes, cutting off what Sasuke can only assume would have been similar to a monologue. She steps forward, pushing the foreigners apart to glare up at the elder male, beautifully long and sleek hair ruffling slightly as she does so. The Uchiha compares her to his own mother, but her pale skin is deathly rather than porcelain, her eyes darker and lost behind thicker lashes. "She wouldn't come back! There's no way that she would! You're  _lying_!"

" _Haku_ ," A beastly voice demands, impossibly low, instructing the girl into submission with just two syllables. Surprisingly, she disobeys, twisting her face to shoot daggers at him, before turning back to service her wholehearted attention to the innkeeper. She looks up at him expectantly, daring him to contradict her.

He doesn't. Instead, he sighs for the hundredth time that evening, regarding the woman with careful eyes. "Go up and see for yerselves, it's not as if yer unwelcome at the Hozuki, right? She might be there, she mightn't. You never know, huh," His voice seems to trail into the distance, as does his gaze. "Anyway, as pleasant as it has been, not that it has in honesty, I have guests, as you can see," He jumps into life.

Crossing delicate arms, the female is quick to respond, with a snort. "Fine, we will. If she is there, we'll come back here and have your head. If she isn't, your entire body,"

Roshi throws his hands up in the air, with a shrug, a playful smile across his features. "Hey, don't shoot tha' messenger," He tells her, not unkindly, and she easily rolls her pretty eyes at it. Slipping her arms from out of her own grasp, she turns to face Zabuza, ignoring the two spectators she has yet to engage, and begins to walk out. She's uninterrupted, not even slowing her pace to allow her companion to catch up, not even to consider the quick 'oi, clean up your blood!' that the innkeeper shouts after them.

Soon, there's only three people remaining in the room. Sasuke tilts his head wordlessly, confused. The Namikaze is the first to say anything. "What was that?" He immediately questions, loud voice escaping through the door just as it closes shut with a thud, inspecting the lodger with intrigued glances.

He shrugs in response, however, a smile playing his lips. "Oh, you know, just business," It's court, though not unfriendly. "They're both kind lads really. Anyhow, how's about these rooms?"

"Both of them are lads?" Naruto articulates the prince's exact thoughts, flabbergasted. The innkeeper chuckles with a nod, expecting the question- Haku is indeed a boy,

They sleep in warm beds that night, which pleasantly shocks both of them, genuinely forgetting their circumstances for a moment. Sasuke wonders why the eccentric woman had thought this village so cruel. He thinks it's actually quite nice.

_He thinks wrong._


	5. The Copper of Breakfast

Sakura doesn't know when she fell asleep, but she awakes to a vacant room and a blanket draped over her body, swallowing up the resting figure on the sofa. Her back aches, no doubt due to the crumpled posture of the woman's bones, and there's a stiffness in her neck that has her wishing to crack it— she doesn't, too warm in the soft fur against her cheek, across to the small of her back, down to even the tips of her toes, to even comprehend movement. Instead, she basks in heat radiating from her flesh, forgetting, just momentarily, every memory, every circumstance, every dream she's ever conjured. It's blissful.

And then, the blanket is on the floor in an instant, her torso upright and green eyes wide in alert.

Her bones whine in protest, begging her to reclaim her position on the sofa, but she brushes aside the discomfort and instead focuses on putting herself together— she recounts, with an almost lazy haze glazing over her vision, the familiar shades of gold and honeysuckle that cover the walls and curtains and tables, the slight hues of boysenberry that demand complete attention as an accent, the tints of deep wine and soft scarlet that decorate the furniture so much so that she considers it excessive. There's also the candlelight chandeliers that reflect upon the cut-glass beakers in an almost taunting manner, as if glimmering and seductive, some larger chalices filled with amber liquids and copper beverages and crimson liquors, other smaller flasks left with single droplets of water on their sides, empty and awaiting.

With a pulsing in her temples, no doubt from the alcoholic binge that she assumes took place only a few hours before now, the female pushes herself up to a stand. It's fatigued and somewhat slouched, an irritation residing in every cell of her body, and in no way proud, but she's far too groggy and disorientated to care. Instead, she presses on, supporting her clumsy legs with the assistance of the striped sandstone and maroon walls, forcing her half-comatosed mind to plough through the two-million-and-six doors of the Hozuki mansion. After the seventh door, she comes to the realisation that she is very,  _very_  lost; whilst every room does indeed have a similar layout, none seem to suggest an exit out of the imprisoning maze. Sakura hisses.

She walks into the eighth room with closed eyes.

Unbeknownst to her, the climate and the time and the existence of it seems to freeze upon her arrival, breaths sucked in at the sight of her petite face and irises dilated at the beacon of rose hair that falls to her back. She's of a state to simply continue in her aimless strides, oblivious and ignorant to anything and everything, far too concerned in escaping to even comprehend any realism— or any art movement, in fact— but something within her draws her to look right. Just a single centimetre right, and it's as if she's been knocked off her feet, turned upside down and sent five years back into the past.

A boy, she knows, one just a few years younger than herself, regards her with a wet stare, boring into every pore upon her face with an almost unbearable intensity. The heaviness in the air is palpable, thick and grey like a lingering ooze, no respiration occurring for that single moment. For a while, there's just silence— silence and the ever so slight shifting of the wind, silence and the tiny muttered breaths of the room's occupants, silence and the relentless pounding of the female's screaming heart. After the while passes, Sakura's own lungs finally filling up with air, full lips part in uncertainty, a question hanging from her tongue too tightly to pass those pearly teeth.

"I don't believe it," Haku clumsily forces out, but it's deeper and gruffer than the woman remembers, containing proponents unfamiliar and heartbreakingly foreign to her. In that second, 'what if's and 'could've been's flash before her eyes like the lightning of a vicious storm, jerking her gut roughly and squeezing it down to the tips of her toes, surrendering her body as an empty shell. Suddenly, her Haruno stomach is white, solitary and wandering, priding itself as the gateway between bearable anxiety and mind numbing dread. Suddenly, she regrets many things— many decisions, many thoughts, many aims, many chances she didn't take, many people she didn't meet, many places she didn't stay. Suddenly, she feels as if she's been abandoning the boy before her the entirety of her life, leaving him companionless and cold and hungry and opposed, leaving him all by himself. Suddenly, she feels nauseous. "I can't believe it," he keeps repeating, almost brokenly, and honestly, she can't either.

"Hi," she offers shyly, breathlessly, hiding emerald pigmentation behind the long tresses of her hair, thumbs brushing her index fingers in a nervous twitch. The villager hates feeling so raw, so out in the open, especially before a child she once sought to protect, but her heart is treacherous. It always has been, always ignoring her protests and betraying her when she relies on it the most. She's just weak, she thinks, like her organ; Weak and fragile and vulnerable, easy to bend and difficult to mend, erratic and uncontrollable and terrified. She hates it.

Zabuza scoffs, alerting the woman's wandering eyes to fixate on his scowl. "Hi?" He spits out, with a sort of vulgarity to the motions of his tongue.

"What, you run off away from this brat without sayin' a single word, leavin' him all sad and worked up and alone, and then greet him with a simple little 'hi' years later? Tch, sorry, but that ain't okay with me. You're the one that had parents, ain't ya? Where's those manners now, huh? It's laughable, don't you think, Haku?"

The boy in question doesn't answer him, however, eyes mercilessly and desperately trailing up and down, up and down, up and down Sakura's grown body. He's clearly distracted, on another plane completely, but the older man doesn't seem to care. Instead, his calloused hands firmly grip at Haku's frail arms, pulling his whole body closer to him with a sole hand. He's strong, he always has been, and his ego is cruel. It makes Sakura fear him, to an extent, even, not certain that the Demon of the Mist won't slice her insides to pieces just to erase her existence from the younger boy's life— Zabuza truly cares for him, she knows, even if he does everything in his power to conceal it. His fondness for the youth has in fact always been evident to the Haruno, blatantly so, but it's different now. There's a shift in their dynamic, a slightly evolved meaning in the meeting of their gazes, a gentleness to even their more aggressive touches, and a warm familiarity in the air that surrounds them. Sakura will most likely never be able to place it, but it's there.

"You have grown close," she says softly, disregarding the bite in the mercenary's quips, not allowing her eyes to lift from the floor. "It is quite refreshing to see you so close, and so safe too, I must admit, I am so glad,"

The Demon snorts again. "Tch, don't be so ridiculous, Sakura, your sentimental bullshit is as annoyin' as ever. Haku is my weapon,"

A smile forms on the rosette's features, one that beats the air from the boy's lungs, and she lifts summer-day irises to the pair. She doesn't once raise the volume of her voice. "And who declared it impossible to love a weapon, Zabuza?" She asks rhetorically, understanding at last the complexity of him. "If a killer enjoys the kill, then surely he likes the weapon. The weapon allows his murder, eases it even, offering a form of gracefulness, do you not think? A killer is no killer sans his weapon,"

"What nonsense are you implyin', Sakura?" He drawls, but he's smarter than to have it spelled out for him.

True to that, the woman chuckles lightly. "Is it attractive to portray yourself as less intelligent than your peers? Does that appeal to your bravado, Zabuza, to pretend not to decode my words with such a sharp brilliance that it outclasses even my own?" It's rhetorical, again, and he seems to accept that, though he doesn't stop the snigger that resounds in the back of his throat. "You know exactly what it is that I imply, just as I know you know exactly what it is that I imply. Do not take my intuition for a fool, and do not insult yourself as so to take your own for a fool, either. I know you know many things, and your dawdling questions only waste our time, so halt your degrading questions and answer me cleanly, Zabuza,"

The man sighs, freeing the teenager in his grasp to press at the bridge of his nose. "Your poetic  _song lyrics_ are also a waste of damn time, you know. Don't deafen me with such fucking floral, colourful words and ask for my own to be simplified. Don't 'degrade'  _yourself_  by mumbling dumbass hypocritical bullshit. It's beneath even you, and it makes my fucking head ring,"

"He's right," The dark-haired boy finally speaks up, writhing his hand around the part that Zabuza had grabbed so violently, and in doing so straightening his posture. "Not about your poetry or whatever that was, because I don't really understand that. What I mean is that we're simple people, Sak, we've only lived on the street. You know how it was— how it still is. We're close in an necessity for survival, because how could a lone man  _survive_  in this city by his own accord?"

Sakura breathes. She breathes an exasperated breath, frustrated, and brings her fingers to tangle into the child's black mane, palms cupping porcelain cheeks. She's moved a few steps forward now, inches from the boy's eyes, her hands trembling on the surface of his soft skin. "Oh, Haku," she all but coos, moving one hand down to caress the sides of his face, delicately, motherly. "How much have you suffered?" She whispers into the air, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

"It's nothing to cry over, Sak," he tells her with a tight smile— but he's already been silently sobbing for a good few minutes— bringing his own hands to hold her own in place as he does so, paper skin concealing the reddened hues of the woman's fingers. "I'm a big boy now, don't you forget. I've survived and I've matured, too, and I'm relatively-" he struggles, irises glossing over with a distance she can't quite place, " _content_  with Master Zabuza. He uses me well, and you understand better than anyone how I hate to be useless,"

The female contemplates her satisfaction for a beat, before deciding it best to just accept the mess of a relationship that stands before her. She is certainly in no place to judge the dynamics of their bond, anyway, especially when she's been starved of that very thing all her life. In fact, at their gentle exchanges, an unpleasant flick of envy boils in the Haruno's stomach. "You were never useless," She tells the younger figure, but if he hears it fumble from her lips, he doesn't show any inclination of it. Instead, he's brushing her away in one fluid motion, though sans hostility, stepping back from her and closer into the the surrounding perimeter of the mercenary.

Zabuza takes an almost protective stance forward, causing the paler boy to diminish in presence behind him, and he certainly  _isn't_  sans hostility. In fact, the Demon regards her with a loathing she hasn't experienced in years, feeling to her, in that moment, so omnipotent that it crushes the ribs beneath her flesh. There's something about the way that he's looking at her— balefully, murderously— that births a thick aura around his stout frame. In that moment, with his sharp teeth bared, he looks as if he's readying himself for a hunt; he is her predator and she is his prey. She finds it odd how, mere years ago, she wouldn't have been able to  _dream_  of that look focused on her, for he was always so kind beneath his exterior, and yet, now, it's so intensely biting at the cells of her body that she wants to scream.

"You're right about that," the man spits at her, like hissing oil on a heated stove, but she doesn't flinch. Sakura stands her ground, a forest darkened by her own rage as she glowers at his protective stance— as if she'd ever hurt the younger boy! The nerve he has to insinuate such a thing! It takes everything within her to remain composed. "He's never been useless, always so obedient. You, on the other hand, have always contained such a stupidly moral standin' that it's been your fuckin' weakness from the start. Do you think Hozuki would've fuckin' touched you if you hadn't preached such naive, pathetically optimistic passages in this cruel, blood-stained fuckin' prison of a place, huh? The only thing remotely interestin' about you is— or was, by the looks of it— was your inability to conform to our fuckin' bloody standards. Now, you've gone and been ruined, ain't you, Sakura? Where's your interest now, you fuckin' coward?"

The rosette sniggers, harsh eyes indenting tanned skin with a vicious grudge. Finding a sofa identical to the ones in all of the other rooms, Sakura throws her body onto it, elegantly crossing her legs a few metres north of the pair. Raising a hand to brush through the long locks of her fringe, her gaze blackens impossibly so, and she allows her back to arch onto the velvet cushions, silent with rage. A few moments pass and, just as Zabuza is attempting to follow up on his monologue, annoyed by her lack of response, her lips are moving. "Your contradiction is annoying," She begins, mockingly, "It is remarkable anyone over the age of  _ten_  can understand you— honestly, I applaud Haku for his ability to interpret you, as I certainly cannot. You belittle me for my 'optimistic naivety' and yet scold me for losing it. I do not follow, Zabuza the oh so mighty ' _Demon'_  of the Mist,"

"Is this how you've been raised?" The Demon hisses, stepping forward to cower over the much smaller figure. "You're a filthy dog. Even Haku, who was bred on the streets of the fuckin' Mist, has more dignity than the facade you shroud yourself in. You're a pathetic fake, Sakura, you've lost your identity and it's fuckin' pitiful. I have nothin' more I want to say to someone with the likes of you," He paces back to where he was previous standing beside the younger male, his scowl sharp and rigid across his features, but the woman can only imagine it as his face regards Haku and not her. "I don't contradict myself, you're wrong in that matter. Your naive side was stupid and annoyin', but your fickleness is what really disgusts me. Where is the girl who saved a young boy from being mauled by our savage citizens? Where is that pride, that unwaverin' determination that birthed Haku's  _messiah_? You were his saviour, his fuckin' light and his only family, and yet you walked away and killed him far more than any weapon could ever,"

The woman stands in seconds. "I was raped!" She screams, anger evaporating the blood within her, steam radiating from her skin like an ooze of fury. "How could I have been a messiah of any sort when I could barely hold myself together? I was a child, Zabuza, a child who had been brutalised and corrupted to an extent I could no longer stand before him with pride. What bullshit you are spewing! You know nothing of my endeavours nor my hardships!"

The man turns on his heel within the space of a heartbeat, matching the female's murderous intent with ease. "It's funny how you're back here then, ain't it?" He takes a single step forward. "If this place really is the cause to all your fuck ups, the fuckin' reason you walk around like a whimpering  _kitten_ ," Another step, a pause and then he swallows down his rising bike. "Why the fuck are you standin' right in front of me," Another step, another pause, another swallow. "Right in this fuckin' town like it ain't the stuff of your nightmares, huh?" He's inches from her face now, bending his back to meet her eye level.

"Zabuza—" Haku begins, but he's quickly ushered to silence.

Under any other circumstance, she would've flinched— ' _like a whimpering kitten_ '— and would've fallen to pieces under that suffocating glare, unable to soak up that its cruel intention is aimed at her. She wouldn't have been able to digest the scrutiny, the lingering stare that jabs at her heart strings in a lonely sob, and she wouldn't have been able to hold her head up high, but she would've felt her lungs constrict and her knees buckle, fear seeping into her mind as a plague. She most likely would've cried, bawled in fact, and would've felt her break into thousands of shards of already cracked glass. Six years ago, the previous sentences wouldn't have been remotely plausible, for she had been so brave and strong at the time, willing to challenge any injustice, and now, she's wondering when she allowed those sentences to become a truth. Zabuza is right, she knows, as she truly has allowed herself to be degraded into a scared, little animal.

But her mother—

No, she's been like this for longer than her mother has been dead. She can attempt to deceive herself all she likes, but her heart, her treacherous heart, bellows out the truth: she's weak. Her resolve came to the doorstep of death, beckoning its callous embrace, in her loneliest hours— God, how long has she been alone? Since birth, she could even argue, or perhaps since Hanako's passing, or maybe since her mother began to plaster her with white lies, or maybe somewhere else along the way to the present. At some point, she lost herself, clouded every spring time sky and wilted every sakura tree, burnt the roots that kept her stable and drowned her leaves in acid rain. Her branches grew harder, blacker, absorbing an ash-like complexion in the winter storms she felt, but so did her flowers, right until they eventually became enslaved by the darkness and withered away. She wasn't a Sakura, she wasn't even a Hanako, she was but a leafless, starved shrub, a single unwatered seed, awaiting the springtime glory.

She's been waiting for the rain, and suddenly, she's feeling ever so damp.

"I have to go," Sakura Haruno tells Zabuza Momochi with wide, desperate eyes, before exiting the room in a rush. She ignores the way Haku gapes as they meet gazes, she ignores Zabuza's perplexed yet understanding smile, and she ignores that suddenly, she remembers every room and the very layout of this mansion. All she recalls is her legs moving.

Well, she has somewhere to be.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

Naruto Namikaze is covered in blood.

Not his own, not his companion's, but covered in the blood of a man he met roughly thirty intimate seconds ago. A man with a rather feminine, shark-like face is holding his side in a hiss, his features somewhat contorted as if he's in pain- which he is, no doubt, in- but an arrogant smirk still resides on his thin lips, a sharp tooth protruding from his mouth. The male, wearing a silver mane with strange violet highlights, gives the pair a content nod, his blood that is heavily dripping to the floor seeming to have no effect on him.

"You see, my brother's quite worked up," The stranger tells them,  _playing_ with his wound with one hand and swinging his oversized sword with the other. "Going on about the girl he ruined or whatever," He raises the tone of his voice to mock his own sibling's accent, prolonging the syllables of his 'so's with an eyeroll. "So 'upset' about it, so 'guilty' about it and so annoyingly empathetic towards it all that it's put me in the worst mood. Who gives a fuck if he banged some whore a few years back and she was underaged? This is the fucking Blood Mist Village, not some church where we practise how to 'love thy neighbour' and only partake in 'love-making' when we're unified by weddingbells. It's fucking ridiculous, don't you think?"

Naruto parts his mouth, unsure. "I-"

"Well, you, you with the blond hair, look like you're probably a church boy so you probably don't agree at all," The male continues, animatedly expressing himself to his guests, but the knight feels as if he's watching someone converse with themselves, unable to interject. Sasuke, who is beside him, remains silent. "So, are you Christian? Do you follow the teachings of the Bible like a good little celibate, preaching about how you love the big J so much and think of him when you masturbate?" The silver-haired man makes a face, as if catching himself. "Oh, wait, is masturbating a sin for you? Am I offending you?"

"I-" the blond tries again, attempting to interrupt, or at least answer, but the swordsman is already moving on.

"See, that's the thing with you religious types, always so fucking offended. Like, I once was with this chick and damn- what a fucking chick she was, let me tell you- but she was all-" He clears his throat for dramatic effect, raising his voice by at least three octaves, dropping his sword like it's nothing to flail his arms, "Oh, Suigetsu-sama, marry me first. Love me, worship my body like the temple it is, love me, please, oh, Suigetsu-sama," His voice drops to its normal tone. "And here I was, trying to get laid, not end up with a life commitment. Don't you hate it when that happens? Like, when you want a-"

The Uchiha chooses to interject, seething, bringing his own sword down to bury into the other male's shoulder. Only, it doesn't bury into anything, it just clangs against a much larger, wider sword, one that had been on the ground mere seconds ago, and almost bounces back out of his grasp. Now equipped, once again, with his weapon, the stranger smirks, almost amused by the prince's antics.

"My, aren't you a big, bad boy? Very  _scary_ , very  _brooding_ , bet you make all the girls wet," Purple eyes crinkle as he throws his head back in a laugh.

Suddenly, Sasuke is pushed to the floor, his partner now taking his place with a firmer handle on his own sword, glaring at the foreign man with an intent to kill. "Don't you touch him," The blond warns, darkly, ready to disarm the silver-tressed man.

The last remaining Uchiha Monarch, sans his mother, is not as ept in swordsmanship as his best friend, not having a particular need in learning how to fight as well as the blond- He is a prince, not a knight or a squire or a guard, and as such, he is not expected to protect himself. These people are trained to fight  _for_ him, not  _with_ him, but, in this instance, he feels agitatedly weak; his brother had taken lessons, and he too had taken the bare essential, but Itachi had grown to be a master of his blade, whilst Sasuke could merely block and defend if necessary. It never was necessary, however, and so the dark-haired prince had remained disinterested and lackluster towards the art.

"Oh, a knight in shining armour, huh? Protecting your man? Oh, how  _romantic_ , I do love a good romance," The man sniggers, mockingly, "Suigetsu Hozuki, at your service, I hope you can protect me with your big strong arms, too,"

Out of reflex, forgetting his circumstance, the knight grins back with just as much dry humour. "Naruto Namikaze, and don't you worry. It'll be my sworn duty, my  _lady_ , although it doesn't look as if you need it, you know," Their blades remain stationary for the most part, grinding on one another in a test of strength, but neither are willing to back down. The knight has a mission to protect the man behind him, and he will do everything in his power to do just that.

 _Namikaze_.

The Hozuki aristocrat knows he's heard that name before. It leaves a delicious taste in his mouth, adrenaline instantly rushing through him, and teases at the glory behind that title. The syllables are familiar, invitingly so, taunting him to bite into the warrior before him; he's hungry for it, starving for a worthy battle, baring his teeth in anticipation to wash himself in the blood of the  _Namikaze_ before him. He wants it, he wants to ravish and completely deform the being in his sight, he wants it so unbearably. He wants to leave the man free of any limbs, he wants to mangle the organs beneath the skin he wants to remove  _layer_ by  _layer_ by  _layer_. That name, so tempting in battle, burns as desire in Suigetsu's stomach.

He draws back his sword, the  _Kubikiribocho_ , in a deliberately slowed motion, not even halting as Naruto's own  _Rasengan_ chases it relentlessly, kissing its ironmongery in a rough jab. Instead, in one liquidsmooth swing of his arm, he brings it crashing down on the knight with such a force that it disarms the blond male, cutting into the tanned flesh of his shoulder and leaking to the floor. At this, Naruto hisses violently, not as used to pain as the other swordsman to remain nonchalant, stepping back in a clumsy stumble. With a disappointed sigh, for he expected a much better fight, Suigetsu once again raises his sword to have it pierce into the blond's flesh, only this time to kill him.

It clanks against a finer sword, one that disarms him in seconds, forcing him to his feet and to gaze in wonder at the person before him. A woman stands in front of the Namikaze, a cloak covering most of her features and body, effortlessly wielding a sword with such brilliant technique that it almost takes his breath away. She slides its needle-like blade into a simple, brown sheath, the sound that accompanies its gliding pleasing all of the men greatly; the newcomer is  _miraculous_ with her swordsmanship.

She turns her back to the Hozuki, leaning over to offer the knight a hand up, locks of hair escaping from her hood- it's coral, a light pink rose, resembling the sakura trees spotted in the most western region of this land. Naruto recognises it instantly.

"Hanako!" He exclaims in awe, accepting her extended palm, watching her as if she is the finest jewel in all of the world, "That was- that was  _astounding_. Where did you learn to do that? You saved me as if you were just  _stretching_ ,"

Sakura regards him with a skeptical expression, suddenly questioning the adequacy of the Mangekyou Knights. That was childsplay for both her and the Hozuki, she knows, and yet he thinks it to be of high praise? Well, no wonder the kingdom's in mutiny, if all of its people are as weak as this… She sighs, pulling him up.

"That was nothing, honestly," She tells him kindly, despite her inner thoughts, once again turning, this time to face the third member of the party. He's standing upright against one of the outer Hozuki walls, arms folded and face as bored as ever, but she can tell he's intrigued by her. She, too, is intrigued by him, but she's certain they don't possess the same reasons.

She's eccentric, she knows, scarred by past memories and the repetitive cycle of death and mourning, armed with skills and talents she's been forced to pick up over the years, hardwired into the need of survival; she's foreign to him, strange and exotic and captivating, a beautifully sad story hidden beneath her dreamily long eyelashes. To him, she is a conundrum he wishes to solve, a puzzle he wishes to complete, a chest he wishes to unlock, but, for her, she's just figuring herself out. She doesn't need some stranger to ponder over why there is purple skin beneath her eyes, to attempt to overanalyse that it might not just be 'lack of sleep'. Sakura doesn't need that.

What she's intrigued by is his need to solve her; not the fact that he's doing it, for that is honestly so tiring, but the fact that he is so desperate about it. Like a hawk, he watches very miniscule movement of hers, charting her constellations of moles and counting every air upon her head; it's enduring, she thinks, his need to understand and relate to her. It's foolish, no doubt, for there isn't that much more to her than 'I'm surrounded by death, I always have been and I probably always will be', but she supposes she'll humour him nonetheless.

"I know you," A voice jolts her out of her trance, one that belongs to a face so like Mangetsu's that she's almost confused whether he's just somehow coloured his hair. Observing him more intently, she begins to differentiate his softer creases from Mangetsu's harsh lines, the shape of his eyes just ever so slightly rounder, the shades of purple a stark contrast to one another's. "You're her, aren't you? That little brat from half a decade ago. My, haven't you grown up nicely?"

Sakura scoffs, rolling her eyes lightly. "You and your brother think so alike. I think he said the exact same words to me just a few hours ago,"

The male smirks, coming closer to inspect her face in more detail. "Oh, yeah? Shacking up with my brother again, huh?" He asks, not expecting a real answer as his eyes trail from her eyes to her lips to further down. "How disappointing. Don't you know that I'm the one with the bigger-"

"You are  _foul_ , just like your brother. I come neither for you nor him, however," She interjects immediately, shifting her eyes with hostility. She takes a step backwards, unable to be in such a close vicinity to him. "Naruto, I came to instruct that you leave at once," Turning her head, Sakura's gaze lands on his wound, "Look at you, you could die here. Leave, please, and never return,"

"But Hanako—"

"Please," the woman begs, "Please, just do as I say,"

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

_A fifteen-year-old girl had laid on rough, yellowish grass, clothed in men's attire and mud worn under the bed of her nails. She had panted, exhausted by the labour she had carried out under the harsh rays of the sun, and had found herself under the shade of a single tree, eyes gazing up at the sapphire sky from between the branches. Months prior, she had cut her long locks and and hadn't allowed them to grow more than an inch from her scalp ever since, at the time; short spikes were so dirty that they seemed to dye her brilliant hair to a dusty brown. In honesty, she hadn't cared- in fact, she had preferred it, enjoying the lessened amounts of attention._

_Despite the fact she hadn't seen her parent in four months, she hadn't felt lonely for a single day. To be honest, however, she mostly thought that it was due to her companions- the head of the Iryoku Farm House, his fifteen-year-old nephew, and his kind wife. They all nurtured her as if she were their own, providing the female with shelter and cooked meals and warm baths, things that even her own mother had struggled to provide. In turn, she helped attend the crops and the livestock, and sometimes, on rarer occasions, she would even assist Atsui, the wife, with making hot pots and stews. Unlike the elder woman, she wasn't as good with that part of her workload, but she excelled in the aspects that Maito, the farmer, required her to do._

_So good, in fact, that she often completed her tasks hours before her deadlines. With that spare time, however, she didn't waste it like she was on that particular day, under the shade, but learnt a skill that would one day be very important to her; three days a week, after the sun set and all of her chores had been completed, Sakura Haruno would train and would slowly, but surely, partake in her quest to master the arts of swordsmanship. With that, she learnt hand-to-hand combat and self-defense, too, under the supervision of a physical genius._

" _Sakura!" Another fifteen-year-old, clad in almost the exact same cotton shirt and tawny pants, had called out to her as she lay beneath the hornbeam. "Sakura! Hey, there's a man here for you!"_

_That hadn't been a sentence she had heard before, ever, in her entire life. It was vague, and it was foreign, and so, it had made her heartbeat erratic, her back snap up to watch him upright with wide, shocked eyes. Lee, the boy had been called, not only shared her clothing style, apparently, but, in that moment, also the same panicked expression on her face. Thick, black eyebrows were slanted, uncharacteristically so, raised to emphasise his fear, as his bellowing figure ran closer and closer towards the young woman. Like usual, his speed was impressive, but there had been something more to it that day; it had been rushed, clumsy even, as his legs had exerted themselves to find her._

_When he had halted in front of her, just a few inches away, he was gasping for breath, hands on his knees and his back curved. Light, stray beams that escaped the erect branches of leaves, had danced across his cheeks, casting the illusion that his long, thick eyelashes grew down to the bottom of his cheekbones. His hair had been ruffled too, loose tresses defying gravity as they stood at the back of his head, his fringe slightly sticking to his forehead and the perfect cut of his mane jolted. From beneath the shadows, Sakura had distinguished a flush to his cheeks, no doubt from his sprint to locate her, although it was a common occurrence around her- he was always pink-cheeked, stuttering nonsensical words and comparing her beauty to the flowers of her name._

" _A man you say?" She had asked with a plastic smile, more for his sake, as if to confirm that she hadn't misheard him, despite her knowing better._

_The boy had nodded enthusiastically, straightening out to take a step forward. Then, he had fallen beside her, sitting in a lazy, drawled out position, as if his prior urgency had dissipated at the sight of her sage eyes. He leant back, mimicking her previous pose, his arms above his head as he fiddled with the grass next to his hair, thoughtlessly. "I do say," He had answered after a long breath, softly, gaze on the seaweed undertones of the spiked needles. "He's a big man, a fat man, with really long and girly hair,"_

_At his words, the girl had mock-gasped, poking the side of his ribcage that was facing her with a single finger. Ignoring his whine and sudden fidget, she poked him for a second time, eyes narrowed in a half-hearted glare. "Don't be so rude! You were raised better than that by Aunty Atsui," There was a laugh to her words. "Your mother is turning in her grave,"_

" _So is yours," Lee had retorted, with a visible grin, relaxing once again into his lean._

_Instead of a poke, a full palm had slapped his side, teasingly. "My mother isn't dead, Lee, how many times must I tell you?" The morbidity of their syllables held no weight to either of the pair, both smiling without so much of even a single care in the world. There was a calmness in the air, one that echoed in the gentle breeze that ran through their hair and caressed their spines._

" _I'd die without your presence, so she must be," He had said simply, confidently, as if the words hadn't engulfed the girl's entire heart in a blanket of warmth._

_He had been so kind, so sweet, always willing to sacrifice anything and everything for her, for his uncle, for his aunt, for anyone really. Sakura had enjoyed his company endlessly, momentarily forgetting her troubles by the sound of his unapologetically loud laughs, his teasing jokes and his blushed sweet nothings that she appreciated far more than she let on. The love she held for him had not been romantic, not in the slightest, but it was strong and unconditional, rivalled only by the affection she held deep in her heart for her older sister. Had she had another sibling, she thought it would have been something akin to their relationship._

_Her days on the Iryoku Farm had been the happiest of her life; there, she had formed a second family, made friends with the people and children that sometimes visited, learnt skills she had always wished her mother and father would've taught her, basked in the warm summer days that never came in her homeland, fell asleep with a full stomach of food and love. Maito Guy, his wife Atsui, and their nephew Lee, had been beacons of blinding light in the grey of the rest of her life. She had laughed and joked and been teased more than ever before, feeling, for the first time in her entire existence, completely and insignificantly ordinary._

_With a sigh and redder cheeks, Sakura had rolled her eyes at the boy's words, but there was a seriousness to what she said. "Don't say things like that, Lee, I want you to live on far longer than me,"_

_He had shrugged, bringing his torso up to be level with her, his dark eyes boring into her own with such intent that it astounded her. His fingers had intertwined with her own, slowly, weakly enough to allow her to resist- she didn't. Gently, he brought his lips to her ear, not quite touching it, but close enough that she had felt his breath across her lobe. "Ah, but, my dear youthful cherry blossom, I'm afraid that's impossible," It was a whisper, so soft that it resonated with the wind, erupting goose bumps across the Haruno's forearms._

_As she was just about to fumble out a stuttered response, he moved his head. A pounding in her chest could have been felt at her the base of her neck, her heart hammering in anticipation, her face as coral as her short, boyish spikes. The hand that was not intertwined with her own came to her jaw, tilting it slightly to grant him access to her complete face, and she didn't stop him. In fact, she had been certain that it had been her to move first, to crash inexperienced lips onto another pair of rougher, but equally inexperienced lips._

_The sensation had been different to what she had expected; it was wetter yet somehow colder, as if it was void of all the passion she had read about in romance novels. It wasn't unpleasant, just a sweet touch of lips, but there had been no 'sparks' nor had it lingered when they parted, in some ways just innocent and clumsy, an event for the sake of an event. A part of her, despite the brotherly figure he played in her life, had been glad that her first kiss had been taken by such a gentle boy, and not, for instance, Mangetsu two years before. Another, more spiteful feeling was angry that she had felt so little, in a romantic aspect, for the farm boy._

" _I-" He had began when it was over, after his hand had fallen back into his lap, reverting to the bashful ways he sometimes hid behind._

_Sparingly, she had only shook her head with a polite smile, silencing him instantly, untangling their fingers in a tender slip of her wrist. "That man is probably waiting for me," Her body had been stretched out, a very slight groan escaping her lips as she did so. "It's rude to keep people waiting, Aunty Atsui says, doesn't she?"_

_Lee nodded at that, with an upward turn of his mouth, reflecting on the lectures that the older, brown-haired woman had chorused in every opportunity she got. Atsui Guy, easily the kindest person Sakura had ever met, had been a short, slender woman with mid-length ringlets. Although her face was on the rounder side, she had the most magnificent syrup eyes the fifteen-year-old had seen, almond-shaped with golden specks hidden beneath the longest lashes on the planet. Two large dimples, so big they resembled craters on her cheeks, accompanied perfectly straight teeth that formed a breathtaking smile. Atsui was beautiful, in a shared, unanimous opinion, and she had been a wonderful cook, too, as well as unconditionally selfless and warm-hearted, with the prettiest giggle in the world. Lee, Sakura, and of course Maito himself, had all loved her in excessive amounts._

" _She does," He'd nodded back, grinning eye to eye as he had done so, not watching as the female stood up. Instead, he was reminiscing, deep in thought, completely one-tracked. That was the thing with Lee, Sakura had found, he was always so centred around one particular task, that he often forgot his surroundings and circumstances completely._

_With a chuckle, she had tapped his leg with the point of her shoes, so faintly that she almost questioned whether he had felt it. When his sparkly eyes had beamed up at her in expectation, however, it was evident that he had. "I'm going to head back now. You coming?"_

_The boy shook his head, falling back onto the grass. "Nah, I'll stay here for a while. It's calming, I see why you come here all the time,"_

" _Okay then," She responded simply with a shrug before walking away, climbing over the fence that separated the grass from the road that led back to the farm, "Don't stay out too late, you know Aunty Atsui hates us staying out in the dark,"_

_He'd only nodded wordlessly in acknowledgement, but Sakura didn't see anything. Instead, body facing away from him as she trekked onwards, she was focusing on the man who was apparently looking for her- Who could it have been? She had no idea, at the time, but his face was certainly familiar when she saw it._


	6. The Russet of Early Hours

_When Sakura Haruno had returned to the cottage on Iryoku Farm, after her first kiss and a day of hard labour, she had met strange eyes._

_Hazel stones had calculated every breath she took, penetratingly hard and frosty like the female's homeland. The vivid colours of the being's magnificent irises— for they contained a mirage of golden ambers and sunset yellows so beautiful, she found herself shivering— pirouetted across the young girl's vision like a regal dancer, stark against a milky white canvass. Against his pale flesh, the man held an entire dawn behind those thick eyelashes, hidden beneath a mask of allure. And yet, whilst suns had beamed brightly down at her, the fifteen-year-old hadn't felt quite so cold in many years; the essence of the blazing sun extinguished itself in a dead stare, paling the brilliant hues into a muddy rust. She felt as if she was gazing up at a reptile._

" _Sakura Haruno, I presume," His syllables had glided off from his long tongue, smooth yet prominent with an accent she recognised all too well._

_Home._

_He sounded as if he was from the North; there was that familiar rasp to his voice, still sophisticated yet somewhat informal, and, although his phrases were said more softly than the people of her nearby villages, the resemblance was indisputable. That rigid yet elegant pronunciation, the almost rough flow of his words, the clear lack of amicability— Snake-like, distant and taunting, his tone definitely belonged to her area. The ever-so-slight prolonging of the 's' had been a strong telltale of her own mother's heritage, but this man flaunted it as if its sage flag had been imprinted onto his very skin. He was a member of the North, she was sure, and it made her heart flutter; she hadn't been home in months, and so his speech shrouded her in nostalgia, to an extent that it caused a storm to swirl around in the pit of her stomach._

_With a polite smile, one that shut the gates of an open heart tightly, the girl had flushed in embarrassment. "I am she," She had mumbled sheepishly. "Please, forgive my rudeness, but I do not think that we have crossed paths before,"_

_Although his face was certainly a blaring red flare, for some reason. She recognised those sharp, chiseled lines, that thin nose and his cunningly pointed eyes, she just couldn't quite place where from._

_He had been sitting down at a table with six chairs placed in two lines of three, each opposite one another, on the seat closest to the girl. An elbow had been resting on the head of the wooden chair, his legs hanging from what was originally its side, his entire body turned to face her; even in such a peasant surrounding, she thought he looked like a king. A wooden beaker of ale had been placed in front of him, as well as an arrangement of the farm's most ripe, exotic fruits, in a simple oak bowl, but he seemed disinterested in both. In fact, he seemed disinterested in everything— In the assortment of lilies and camellias placed in the centre of the rectangular table, in a clear vase and freshly retrieved water, and disinterested in the small yet homely kitchen open just behind him, cosy and wooden. The man spared the boysenberry flower-patterned curtains no heed, nor did he examine the sunlight seeping through the windows in no amazement, his eyes never once lifting from Sakura's own form._

_The male had shrugged, true to that blasé peer. "Ah, well, I suppose that is dependent on your interpretation of 'crossing paths', young Sakura,"_

_He had said it so casually that it confused the young girl, but she ignored her biting curiosity and instead focused on things she deemed more important. Taking a step to the seat opposite the stranger, she extended it from the table and placed herself in it. "Where is my family?" She asked, folding her hands into her lap._

" _Not down there," Orochimaru simply had teased when seeing her eyes downcast and afraid, staring intently into her own lap, but he quickly moved on. "Your father is dead, but you know that, and your mother is safe at home in the north. You also know that, young Sakura. Why ask such a silly question?"_

_The girl reddened. "I— I actually did not mean them," She whispered it as if it was a sin. She was convinced it was, in honesty. There she had been, basking in the summer rays of the Eastern Realm, playing make-believe with the family she worked for, whilst her mother suffered the icy blizzards of the North and awaited her return anxiously. She was only supposed to have been in Iryoku Farm for a month, but it had already been four and the child didn't plan on leaving for a while longer. Her heart burned with guilt._

_As if he had foretold her answer already, the stranger hummed out a noise of agreement, carelessly, his head nodding gently as he did so; Sakura had thought he seemed to have the world at his fingertips— He understood the sheepish stutters of a teenage girl, and probably of all of the teenage girls, and he carried himself as if he had long ripped apart every man and woman and sowed them back together, all knowing in the nature of humanity. He seemed to have comprehended and resolved every person on the face of the planet, from the Icelands of the North to the Capitals of the South, all the way to the Barrenlands and Mountains of the West and the Crops and Farmlands of the East; he could have spoken any language and the girl wouldn't have been surprised, anticipating his mastery of all the tongues of the continents. The stranger had been omnipotent._

" _Your poor mother, I do wonder how she's coping," His hum didn't leave his voice, but he seemed to notice Sakura's remorseful tremble at his cutting verbs. "Oh no, not with your disloyalty— although I suppose that would also break her heart," The man shrugs, somewhat playfully, a wicked chuckle escaping his throat._

" _What do you mean?" It's said with a deathly, unsaturated fear._

_Orochimaru, the King-In-Waiting at the time, hadn't cared for her sentimental attachments, however; he had travelled to the East in his own privacy, unbeknownst to any of the palace officials, and had hiked through the earlier humid weather conditions and swam through lakes, froze himself in the tent he put up in the cool forests, sweated through his clothes at some points and dirtied every part of himself— To reach his destination, the King-To-Be had forced himself into circumstances unheard of to someone of his class, but he needed the girl. With his weary eyes and exhausted limbs, he cared not for the regretful aches of Sakura Haruno's heart. On the other hand, he wouldn't have cared if he had taken a carriage and felt perfectly rested, either._

" _Your mother has fallen ill," He had told her with a sick lick of his own lips, yellow eyes gleaming in delight. Oh, what a cunning man he had been, if he didn't say so himself. "She's resting up in my manor, but I fret that she may not last for long,"_

_In all of Sakura Haruno's life, at that moment in time, there had been three events that had spun her world on a different axis— her family's bankruptcy, her sister's death and the Village of the Mist— but none had hit as hard and as suffocatingly as the first time she heard of her mother's illness. The strike, however, hadn't shattered her heart or sent a pulsing pain through every limb in her body, it hadn't jolted her being and it certainly hadn't hurt in that classical, sharp sense. No, in fact, it had simply ached._

_Ached as if her very heart had been squeezed by a clenching, grasping, gripping, crushing hand. It had felt as if the organ was moments away from bursting, the pressure on its sides teasingly close to an explosion, but that, around it, there was a numbing that forbade it from doing so; instead of relief, instead of release, thick tension pulled at her arteries mockingly, anticipating a liberation from the numbness— but it had never come. That palpable, oozing sensation remained like a pungent disease, heavy and bland in her chest, agonisingly unfeeling. Whilst pain and suffering was, too, unpleasant, it hadn't compared to the 'nothing' that had resided in the young girl's body. The tights knots in her stomach, the insatiable hunger, the constant dryness in her throat, the lack of enthusiasm; she had been ruined, stripped of her ability to feel engaged, to feel active, to feel the beauty of the seasons. She had grown pale and indifferent to the wonders of life._

" _My mother—" She had struggled so hard to swallow down the rising bile, pausing repeatedly in her words. "My mother is sick?"_

_God, how it had hurt to say those words. It had felt as if she had been embedding knives into her own already numb, ice-like skin; like rubbing salt onto the wound, only the lack of sensation was maddening._

_Orochimaru had nodded, still indifferent, but he had also reached out to place a hand on the table, as if welcoming her own. Her hands, however, stayed in her lap. "That's how it is," He had reaffirmed, but there was a merry tone to his words, as if it was a festive season and he'd just been listening to carols. Sakura's hard eyes had long been dropped into her lap, wet and threateningly close to spilling over, but she noticed his paper-white fingers out from her peripherals._

" _You— You jester, do you not?" The girl had remained fixated on the patterns of her own clothes, gaze locked down. Her voice had been little, fragile even, trembling as if her larynx was seconds away from shattering. Rocks grinder against one another in her throat. "You must be joking, please, allow myself to believe that you kid,"_

" _I don't kid," He sighed, melodramatically, slipping his disappointed hand off from the table, clearly frustrated. "Your mother is sick, deathly sick, and, out of the goodness of my own heart, I trekked here to tell you so,"_

_But she wasn't stupid._

" _What do you want from me?" Her eyes lifted up to gaze into his own, hatefully. There was a fiery harshness in the green of her irises, so vivid that it cast a halo of gold around her pupil._

_He reciprocated her murderous stare with a light-heartened grin, his teeth shining pearly white as he did so. With an almost chuckle to his voice, the male nodded, pleased. "My, you sure are brighter than your mother. Then again, her mercenary nature blinds her, so that isn't much of an achievement,"_

_Sakura slammed her hands onto the table, furious, her body stood up. "How dare you insult my mother!" She had seethed, white-hot anger steaming from her temples._

" _Quite easily, honestly," He'd been blunt, posture sagging into his chair, almost in boredom. Then, with a sigh, he'd straightened himself, sitting up again, as if being readied to make a speech of some sort. "She's greedy— covetous and rapacious, even, and rather a boring specimen, if I'm honest. There are many like her,"_

_The girl had stumbled, mentally, at loss for a retort. She slouched back into her seat, reverting to her prior position, but not before uttering a weak: "That— That is not true," It was a stutter, clumsy and intelligible, but Sakura had felt a blood duty to defend her parent to the ends of the Earth, regardless of anything and everything. Even if she lacked an argument, she'd at least try until her very last breath, for her mother's sake._

" _If you wish to convince me of that, perhaps you should do a better job of convincing yourself, first. You should be as believable as a blue jay, and not as a guilted heretic,"_

_The young girl raised her eyebrows in defense, the octave of her voice instantly jumping up by two. "You make it out as if the heretics are criminals,"_

_She had been a strong believer of equality, once; everyone who held a opinion was entitled to it, and everyone who disagreed with that was entitled to keep it to themselves, in her opinion. She hadn't dwelled on the spiral of hypocrisy, for she had once been so very passionate about her faiths that it blinded all logic, but, as the days after her beliefs were set grew into months and years and half a decade, she began to realise that equality wasn't so black and white. Like everything that her seventeen-year-old self has witnessed, presently, equality was— and is— grey and murky and indistinguishable. First and foremost, it was unattainable; humans, in her experience, seemed to have been so derived from greed and self-infatuation that they often turned the other cheek to others, looking down on those of lower class and allowing them to suffer. As long as they pretended they didn't hear it, it was as if it didn't exist._

_But she had never been able to silence the screaming. Be it a simple cut, a gaping wound, scarring emotional trauma, the coarse suffocation of death— All suffering punctured the lungs in her very chest, begging her to fix and mend and glue and hold together everything that she could manage. If she saw a tear, she'd wipe it. If she saw blood, she'd bandage it. It was her very essence of being, to help others. No matter what had happened, she hadn't been willing to let anyone take it from her. Embedded into Sakura Haruno's soul had been a bright, shining beacon of kindness._

_Orochimaru had spat upon her beliefs as if they were mongrels in the street, impure and filthy. Her self-esteem had withered. "They are criminals to God," He'd laughed, and yet she doubted he believed in any form of divine being. "They aren't like us, Sakura, they're evil,"_

" _Evil is a relative term," She'd insisted, with more desperation than she could justify._

_The male had hummed again, nodding his head in agreement, that sing-song, lighthearted tone never quite leaving his voice. For him, it was as if everything was a jest, and it annoyed the fifteen-year-old far more than she thought possible; the man made her blood boil, her skin itch and her eyes ache. In fact, she could taste her own dislike for him on her very tongue, a bitterness sour in the base of her throat. "Ah, that it is, young Sakura, but their insatiable hunger for power stems from the very root of the word—" The pause caused her to gulp for a reason she couldn't quite place. Then, as if the words were a long-kept secret finally being revealed, he said, meaningfully, with emphasis: "Hell itself,"_

_Religion was something she'd come to terms with much later, however, and so she'd simply scrunched up her nose in distaste and ignored his sentiments. She'd never believe in an omnipotent being such as God, though, as she thought it illogical— Well, no, in fact, she had thought it very logical. It was as if a rulebook had been written, dictating to half the population how they must act to enter Heaven; it was, in her opinion, a successful method of manipulation, one of the highest tier. Millions of people were at the beck and call of an inference, of a speculation, of a precaution, and that had to be done was that a story be told. It was a masterpiece, she had thought._

" _You are a fool," Sakura had said, definitively._

" _You are the fool, if you believe that the heretics of Mangekyou hold any humanity, young Sakura— they're in love with currency, seduced by profit and bathed in greed. The Capital thinks that because it holds the most power, it can do as it pleases and as it pleases alone. It's blinded by its own conceit, especially that self-degrading monarchy, and there is nothing the rest of the world can do about it, right?" He laughed, with a pause, eyes lighting up with a sinister gleam. "Wrong. The solution is caressing the very tips of our fingers,"_

_That had confused the girl. To be honest, it all confused her; she couldn't comprehend why he was discussing this with her, of all people, and why he'd come to locate her if this was all he was going to say. The man, whoever he was, was a complete madman, in her opinion, lost in his own prejudice ideals. She knew of the hate many held for the Uchiha of the Mangekyou Kingdom— in fact, she too hated them in some regards— but she couldn't understand, at the time, why some strange northern aristocrat had come to 'gossip', for it was truly just gossip to her, about them one summer day._

_He, however, had very quickly answered her questions. "The solution, you are no doubt curious about, stands before me— sits before me, in fact," A bell rang inside the girl's head. "That's right, young Sakura, you are the solution."_

_Her eyes had widened, a slight gasp escaping her lips._

_She was the what?_

_He chuckled._

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

The sky is grey.

That isn't an irregular occurrence in the harsh winter of the Mist, of course, but Naruto's eyes find it difficult to adjust to the monotone colour— it's too bland, too single-toned for his liking. He also finds it difficult to adjust by the blurring of his surroundings, too, but he prefers to sound more romantic. In actuality, the one reason he cannot focus on the remarkably clear, yet also expectedly dull sky would be because he's running.

Running from what?

He doesn't even know himself.

All he knows is that there's a tight grip on his wrist, a pretty head of hair furiously flowing in front of him and his best friend is trailing a few paces beside him.

The blond halts for a second, snapping the girl back by the hand placed on his own. "Hanako!"' He calls, turning her to face him, now by her wrist.

Beautiful eyes regard him with irritation, but he doesn't notice— instead, he's begun to write internal poems about her 'leafy' eyes and 'peach-smooth' skin. He isn't an author, however, by far, but he's definitely feeling inspired.

"What?" The woman hisses, but to him, it's sung by the choirs of the heavens.

With a smitten grin, baby blue eyes crinkling in adoration, he slides his hand up so he's no longer clinging to her wrist, and is instead gentle in caressing her palm. "Where are you taking us?" He asks, paying close and intricate detail into how her long, thick eyelashes brush against one another when she blinks.

"Away from here, it is far too dangerous," She sighs, clearly frustrated by their continuous stop-and-start dynamics, but there's a polite smile on her lips nonetheless. With this boy, she finds it so hard to snap at him; he reminds he far too much of an innocent, naive child, one wearing rose-tinted glasses and giggling at anything and everything. A part of her wishes that someone would have tried to preserve her own childlike nature, but here she is, far from it and brimming with cynicism.

This boy, or this young man, really, is not naive, however. He contains no childish innocence and he is under no deception of the word; he knows its cruelty as if it's a friend of his, so familiar with it that he almost calls it by another name, an epithet, and so used to it that he's almost indifferent. On the other hand, there is a large and drastic difference between 'almost indifferent' and 'indifferent'— He emphasises with it, he supports those who are victims of it, he always lends a helping hand, he feels guilt and sorrow when meeting another who is experiencing it, but he expects it. For him, if someone has lived a life liberated from cruelty, it's shocking. If someone has lived a life shrouded in its pungent ooze, it's normal.

The spectator, who has been slowing down at his own time, following behind them, finally decided to interject the spectacle. "You were the one who lead us here," He tells the woman, also annoyed.

But she's not in the frame of mind to take his quips with grace. She positions herself to access him slightly better, now standing directly opposite of him, free from the other's grasp. "I am fully aware, thank you very much, but we do not have the time nor the opportunity to contemplate past mistakes—"

" _Your_  past mistakes—" He tries to correct.

She throws her arms up in the arm, seething. "I am fully aware,  _thank you_!"

The dark-haired male smirks, suddenly pleased with himself. "Hn, would you look at that?" There's a smug outline to his otherwise innocent voice. "We just contemplated your past mistake. I see we had the time  _and_  the opportunity after all,"

"You are a  _bastard_ ," She spits, emerald eyes boring angrily into his own darker, amused irises."I am trying to save your life and yet here you are, contradicting everything I say with this sudden bout of a superiority complex. We do not have the time, the opportunity or the  _anything_ , in fact, to stand here and debate whether or not we should be standing here, why we are standing here and how we are standing here!"

There's a pause of about fifteen seconds after her outburst.

Sakura inhales a sigh of relief at his lack of retort, turning slightly to face Naruto more so, readying herself to address the both of them.

But the silence isn't broken by her.

"I am a pureblood, not a  _bastard_ ," Sasuke says before she can, however, and it takes everything in her not to punch him right round the face.

Just as she's about to retort, however, a shout has alarm bells ringing in her ears.  _Shit_ , she thinks,  _they've caught up to them._ With a panicked urgency, the woman yanks both of the pair by their wrists, suddenly running much faster than before, straight in their previous direction. This time, she ignores their mumbles of protest and their inquiries, her grip vice-hard as she pulls them along, her long hair tickling at Sasuke's hand as she does so. He thinks it's miraculously soft, easily one of the most beautiful colours he's ever seen, but he refuses to surrender that, as well; the woman, he's discovered, is infuriatingly argumentative, far too headstrong to be considered ladylike in any manner and, in honesty, just plain  _bossy_. They certainly don't sync well, despite his prior judgement, and he thinks he'll lose his mind if he has to spend even another  _hour_  with her.

He thinks it's a shame, however, for he also thinks she's  _very_  attractive; he's always liked long and wavy hair, locks that cascade like a waterfall, tresses of liquid silk that beckon light to dance off them. Always, he's thought that the longer the hair, the better it frames a woman's face— well, he supposes there have been some anomalies, but this woman certainly isn't one. A soft, elegant mane woven from the corals of the ocean and rose gold jewels, captured from the sunset pinks of dusk, frames her face as if every feature upon it was once sent by the mighty Aphrodite herself. He isn't a romantic, he doesn't even believe in the  _concept_  of romance, but her hair is beautiful— for him, it's as simple as that. Of course, she has pretty eyes and a pretty face and a pretty body, too, no doubt, but so do many girls and women and maidens of the world. He doesn't think Hanako is particularly special, in honesty, but he thinks her hair is beautiful.

Naruto, on the other hand, worships at her feet; he feels as if her hair is stunning and golden, as if her eyes are gorgeous and sparkly, as if her lips are soft and kissable, as if her figure is perfect and heavenly, as if every part of her is an angel sent to bless him. Naruto's in love, he thinks, enticed and entranced and captivated and infatuated and so very, so deeply, so wonderfully  _in love_. The world seems brighter, colours all far more vibrant than ever before, each sound a gentle song chorused into his ears, each movement a waltz across his heart, and, honestly, he feels as if his heart is on the verge of  _exploding_. Naruto is in love. Anyone could tell him differently, as he's known her two days, but he understands his feelings better than anyone— Naruto Namikaze is in love. He's in love with the mysterious yet beautiful and kind Hanako, a skilled and funny maiden he met on an adventure; his heart pounds and flutters and clenches, his mind gushes and loves and adores. He's in love.

_He's in love._

She makes them turn a corner, rather clumsily, before eventually slowing her pace. With a quick glance around, she decides that they're safe— they've lost whoever was following them, she hopes anyway, and she feels as if they're enough out of each to leisurely make their way out of this forsaken village. She'll guide them, as she's already grown attachment to the blond, and then she'll make her own way back to Mangekyou to do something she should've done a long time ago. No suicide, no more mourning— redemption. She'll redeem herself, she'll repay her debts and honour Mebuki Haruno until her own last breath. Then, she'll perhaps retire in the East, on a farm, and live out her days.

"What was that about, huh?" The Namikaze asks when Sakura has long let them free, his hands on his knees and his back arched, loudly panting. He's clearly exhausted, though not from their run but most likely from the emotional trauma of homesickness— and there's also the fact that his ' _home_ ' is in complete shambles, all the consistency and stability of his life in tatters as he tries desperately to survive in a foreign country. He's blatantly quite patriotic, too, from what Sakura can recall, which is no doubt crumbling his identity into his own strips of chaos. Although she doesn't like Mangekyou or its people, she can quite easily sympathise with him.

The darker haired boy, who she still doesn't know what to call, seems completely unfazed, however, his expression hard and his lips tight in a line. A part of her pins it down to a bravado, for he certainly seems like a very proud man, but another assumes that he was just raised to be nonchalant, as he also seems very self-disciplined.  _God, what is with her and making assumptions today?_  She rolls her own eyes, mentally scolding herself.

"I told you beforehand, this place is dangerous," She remarks, shifting her body to face the pair, but the dark-eyed man has his torso facing away from the blond, his eyes looking into the distance.  _He could at least listen to her!_

"We were doing fine," Naruto protests with a smile, "I'm good with a weapon,"

He isn't. Sakura saw that herself, first hand— he could barely land a single hit on Suigetsu, and, whilst Suigetsu is renowned for his swordsmanship, she could easily name much better swordsmen. Maito Gai, for instance. Jiraiya of the Mountain Terrain, also, and even Orochimaru himself could single-handedly wipe the floor with both the blond and the Hozuki  _at the same time_. She's also heard stories of Minato Namikaze and his disciple, Kakashi Hatake, who are allegedly just as good as her previous master; the woman can appreciate a fine craftsman, a master of his own trade, and Naruto here certainly isn't one. Honestly, she has half a mind to train him.

"But they are  _better_ , Naruto. Had I not shown up, I am afraid that you would possibly be lifeless at my feet," Her eyes shift over the the heavily cloaked figure. "And your friend, too. This place is trained in murder, it is not for people like you,"

Dark-Eyes-And-Brooding scoffs, allowing his gaze to flicker on her face for just a second before he's fixated on the wall again. "What are people like us, then?" He hisses, all malice intent and anger. "Just as we know nothing of you, you know nothing of us,"

She sighs. "That is true, of course, but I have eyes— you emit your heritage as if it is fire burning from your flesh. I can taste your inexperience in the air,"

"I am not inexperienced—"

"You hold a blade like an imitator, as if it is more an object of fashion than of necessity," Sakura interrupts the man quickly, but there's an unexpected patience in her tone. "You  _are_  inexperienced, and that 'inexperience' is a frequent cause of death in these lands. You must listen to me, you must allow me to assist you out of here, for your sake far more than my own,"

The Uchiha's pride flares beneath his veins, dangerously hot, wanting nothing more than to tear away at his skin and free his steaming bravado, but he values his life enough to bite his lips shut. Sharp teeth grind against one another with force that draws blood at the corner of one of the prince's gums, although his mouth is tightly straight, unrevealing in his anger— but Sakura has already pictured how this conversation is going to turn out three times, all with different ending, and none suggest a complacency. In fact, all of which have him either outright barking out or internally sulking like a child. Either way, he's far from content in any of her daydreams, let alone in real life. In real life, his jaw is clenched, hardly, molar against molar in an unrelenting battle; there's a sharp line where his neck and face meet, sharper than his already prominent angles, sharp enough that, if she were to reach out and touch it, she fears that it may cut her flesh. There's a bulge twitching in the side of his cheek as his muscles contract and retract, pulsating in fury, and his brow bone seems to have hardened to an impossible extent. Thick, dark eyebrows are knitted together, his irises partially hidden behind irritated, narrowed lids as his gaze burns the walls a few metres away— he doesn't even look at her.

For Sasuke, he's contemplating the last time he was ordered around like a dog on a leash, told to heel and follow in a mindless stroll. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he reminisces his elder brother— his perfect, genius, prodigious brother with his millions of talents and unrivalled skill and respected wit. Itachi has always been the shining star of the Uchiha skies, the epicentre of anything and everything all at once, the queen  _and_  the king of a chess board, the protagonist of a novel or maybe even the plays he and Sasuke would watch together; he's radiant, kind, gentlemanly, earnest, hardworking, selfless, intelligent… And, honestly, the younger Uchiha could go on. His brother's titles are not empty; he's a wonderful man, a loving older brother and he's also most likely a great king too, but being cast under his shadow for the boy's entire life has led Sasuke to hold him with a jealous loathing.

One thing the monarch has always been is competitive. His best friend is his rival, his brother is the man he intends to surpass; he's battled and argued with more men than he can count, rolled his eyes and tutted at passersby with unadulterated malice on multiple occasions, belittled and insulted and degraded anyone he saw fit without even an ounce of consideration for anyone else— his personality is flawed, he knows, but it's more or less been embedded into him since his first word (which he said at a younger age than Itachi said his own, for the reference). Or, at least, he'll argue that, willing to blame his strict upbringing for every wrongdoing he commits. The truth is, however, that might not be the case. Of course it's certainly had its impact on him, to such an extent that he walks around as if the world exists for him and him alone, but Naruto feels as if his best friend's cynicism stems from something far more fundamental than his dysfunctional family. The male is not so childish that his entire essence is morphed from a one-sided, brotherly rivalry between he and his brother, but Naruto also trusts that the Uchiha will easily blame it on that same rivalry— Sasuke's like that, though, always willing to take an easy out, to fixate his rage on one object only, to blur his own peripherals just to spite that he may, deep down, be the better person Itachi and Naruto both believe he is.

Sasuke briefly wonders how his brother is doing. In the weeks coming up to the Crimson Accolade, the two had spoken on one occasion, the younger of the two lashing out in anger by the end of the exchange, so the prince feels as if he left his relationship with his brother on a sour note. He'll apologise when they meet again, he'll make it up to him, will comfort him and their mother and will enjoy being with his family again; he'll put aside his childish whims and will mourn his father properly, shrouded in familial love. Unbeknownst to all but his family theirselves and possibly his best friend, the youngest Uchiha is, in actuality, very family-orientated. His heart longs to see his brother again, to kiss his mother on her soft cheek, to send off his father in an appropriate manner- his father always appreciated fine class, so he'd ensure they bode him farewell with the finest class, but he also internally remarks that Itachi would most likely have already had it arranged.

"We'll listen," it's the blond to speak, despite the fact that the stranger's statement hadn't been aimed at him, but Sakura appreciates his response regardless.

Sasuke just begins to walk in the direction she seemed to be leading them to earlier, and the remaining pair soon follow, only less wordlessly.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

In the north resides two men, two close friends, both of high ability and respectable dignity. Both come from the south, from the Capital, and both fear the state of the Crimson City; one of them is easily panicked, a rather comical character, whilst the other is more elusive with a hardened outer shell, but both are kind and giving and patriotic, willing to lose a limb for the sake of their home— or, more accurately, for each other. Their feelings towards Mangekyou itself are…  _conflicting_.

One of the pair storms into a dimly-lit room, his face contorted with anguish. The other man, who is taller and with finer yet longer hair, is already seated in it. "King Itachi—" The entering man begins,  _announces_ , eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, swallowing the bile down his throat. The male is shaking. "He— He's dead,"

The room is dark, lit only by two candles and the moon, sparse of furniture, wooden and simple in architecture; it's typical of the northern accommodation, a single-roomed cottage free of any more modern technology, slightly cold yet not stale in the air. At his companion's arrival, the silver haired man, who was just slouching, straightens himself in the chair, his head lifting from his novel to regard the his newest roommate. "Ah, seems like it," He nods, his mind already numb to the mutiny and constant death.

"So what must we do now?" Black hair shifts in mania, its owner in a somewhat frantic frenzy. " _Everything's_  in chaos, Naruto and the young prince have run off, Orochimaru is no doubt plotting to take control of Mangekyou and— and well—" his words dry in his throat, a hysteria evident in his mannerisms. The man is going insane, he can feel it in himself. "There's no order, no lawfulness, no system of justice— everything's a free for all, and— well— there's nothing but chaos!"

The man nods again. "Ah, that is true,"

"It  _is_ , I  _know_ ," The other reaffirms, in desperation. He watches the hunched over figure in anger, his dark eyes scanning his counterpart's face in an avid fury. "But why are  _you_  surrendering, Kakashi? You're supposed to be a captain, one of Mangekyou's  _great_  voices of reason, and yet you haven't even made a move yet,"

Kakashi, or so he's called, nods for the third time. "Ah, but great things come with great patience— we must await our opening, strike when the time is right, and not carelessly rush into an already decided battle," He smiles with a slight hum to his voice, angering the standing body even further. "Good things come to those who wait,"

"You're an idiot," Is the retort he receives, however, and it's not whole-hearted. "You literally only just quoted about six idioms, all in a single word-vomit, all sharing the exact same meaning," Although he sighs, there's a softness to his voice as he exasperatedly stares at his best friend. "I swear that's the only reason you have your job, for your stupid proverbs. You're a lousy captain otherwise,"

Kakashi chuckles, nodding for the fourth time. He does that a lot, obviously, especially around his partner. "Hm, that is true," the Hatake regards the other in a thoughtful double-take, his lashes brushing together as his eyes lift up and down. " I think you are much better suited for it, in honesty. You are far more inspirational than I could ever be,"

The darker-haired male is pleased. "Yeah, that's so true, I know," He's brimming with pride, although his partner compliments him regularly anyway, until he pauses, considering something with the tilt of his head. "But you look more like a badass than I do, so they probably gave it to you anyway because of that,"

"I look like a badass?" Kakashi laughs warmly. "Oh, Obito, are you flirting with me?"

"Ha! You wish!" The Uchiha retorts, instantly, but there's a furious blush on his cheeks. For some reason, he cannot look the other in the eye. "And just because you look like one, idiot, it doesn't mean you  _are_  one,"

Silver hair ruffles in the moonlight, the male's toros quaking in another laugh. "I cannot recall the last time someone said badass, though. Perhaps it was in the last era? Or, you know, the last five," The man grins, intently watching his best friend's expression shift in offense. "I disagree with the Uchiha, you are actually very traditional and old-fashioned,"

Obito growls, yanking the captain up into a standing position by his tunic. With an attractive smirk, he brings the taller man to his height by the pull of his collar. "Well you would know, I bet you had your first wife five eras ago," He's proud of it, grinning lightly to himself, but his smile amplifies at Kakashi's own laugh. He likes being funny.

"A grey hair joke, Obito, really? And here I thought you were finally getting some originality. I suppose although Mangekyou changes, its inhabitants never will,"

The Uchiha snorts, rolling his eyes as he allows more space to appear between the two males. "That's an ironic statement if I've ever heard one,"

"Ah, you are right," Kakashi concedes, his gaze fixated on Obito's own eyelashes. He thinks they're so long and pretty and feminine, to such an extent that he often calls the Uchiha girly things to tease him."Mangekyou has always been on the verge of shambles, if not at least unstable at its foundations. The people, however, are—"

"Fickle," Obito finishes, lifting his eyes up to stare into the other man's. "They follow the one with the loudest voice,"

The smile is ripped from the captain's face in an instance, as if cold water was just thrown over his entire being, jolting him into sobriety. "It seems as if the Uchiha no longer have a voice," Kakashi says with meaning. "We must find Prince Sasuke at once, for I fear that otherwise he will be silenced, too,"

"That fool knows how to disappear, especially away from us, but you're right: we have to find him," After a second, Obito curses, turning his body away in a bout of fury. "That moron Namikaze, fleeing away from safety!"

"No," Kakashi announces with certainty. "Naruto is far more intelligent than he is given credit for. He most likely felt Orochimaru's malice and acted on his paternal instinct," He smiles lightly, commending the younger boy. "Most likely something along the lines of getting poor, impressionable Sasuke out before he is— well,  _impressioned_. That child is clever,"

Obito considers it for a moment, before deciding he's in complete agreement with his own best friend. "They're good together,"

"Ah, they are. They understand one another better than anyone else—- well, except for maybe us,"

The Uchiha rolls his eyes, a slight smirk on his face. "They're doomed then," He says playfully, turning to hit the Hatake in the stomach.

Again, Kakashi laughs. "Ha, one would think so, but I think we're rather good together, too,"

"We're not," the Uchiha deadpans, but it's clearly not genuine. "We're the  _worst_  together,"

"The worst?" Kakashi asks with humour, a huge smile on his face, bringing his partner closer to him. A silver eyebrow is raised in mock curiosity, wiggling exaggeratedly in a manner that emits a cackle form the the dark-haired male, but soon their noses are touching, silencing Obito instantly.

In his experience, the Hatake has always been so confusing; he's dull and elusive, uncaring and cold half of the time, wearing his perfect 'captain' skin and ordering him around, calling him 'Uchiha' as if they don't laugh hysterically the other half of the time. He can be distant and demeaning, terrifyingly intimidating even, especially with his years of experience and his excess of talent, but he can be funny and sweet, too, with a musical laugh and a soft smile. He can lift the weight of the world off from Obito's shoulders, can erase every worry and fear from Obito's heart in a second, can make Obito cry of laughter and make his heart bubble in unadulterated joy— Kakashi makes him happy, makes him feel as if he's walking on air, makes me feel as if he's in the safest, most comfortable place in the planet. Kakashi is his best friend.

But Kakashi is also flirty and teasing, annoyingly attractive and perfectly masculine; he's near  _perfect_  itself, Obito thinks, but he'll never ever even dream of saying it aloud. He doesn't think he's in love with Kakashi— they're like  _brothers_ — but he sometimes pictures the consequences of leaning forward and sealing their lips in a kiss. He imagines the captain to be a great kisser, experience and passionate, knowing exactly how to glide his tongue to achieve the best response from Obito, and he imagines those calloused hands of his holding Obito's neck in place, rough and powerful and authoritative, and he imagines loving every second of it. Then, he imagines Kakashi's anger and disgust, picturing the captain throwing Obito off from his body and glaring down at him with intense hatred. Then, he contemplates if it'd feel weird— after all, Kakashi is his brother by bond. He always decides it would.

"The worst," Obito confirms, but he's breathing heavily, his eyes lower down on the captain's face than he'd ever like.

"Ah," Kakashi agrees, suddenly stepping away from his best friend. "We should go and search the taverns, they might have some information useful to us,"

The knight is lost. "Huh?"

"To find Prince Sasuke?" The other knight prompts and Obito wants to repeatedly bash his own head against a wall. He's also so distracted.

"Oh, right, yeah. Of course, let's go,"

And then, they're off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays (or just a happy end of 2017, whatever it is you wish to celebrate at this time)! ~
> 
> Thank you for your lovely feedback so far, I hope you are all enjoying Of Crimson Days. I probably won't post until the beginning of next year, although idk, I might be productive for the first time in my life and post an early update. 
> 
> Then it'd really be a Christmas miracle ;)
> 
> Anyway, we're finally delving into the main plot line. Most of what you've seen so far as been more of a set-up to what is to come, a bit of background if you will, but now, we're beginning the adventure. Although this is mostly SasuSakuNaru-centred and will have a majority of the 'scenes' revolving them, I will be slipping in additional little stories and such along the way. Just clarifying, this is in no way NaruSaku nor will it ever be. This is 100% SasuSaku. Any other parings and relationships are not set in stone nor are definite, I'm not going to list other shippings in tags, it's all going to be interpretation based. On the other hand, that in no way means there won't be a hell of a lot of other pairings! 
> 
> Happy New Year to you all! 
> 
> \- Karamel x


	7. The Mahogany of Ten to Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had this finished three months ago but forgot to post it, whoops.
> 
> My italics didn’t copy through, so sorry in advance :/

It surprises both Naruto and Sasuke to be lead back to their inn. They assumed that the woman had, at first, coincidently wandered in its very direction, but Sakura's legs aren't halting or changing course— in fact, her arms are suddenly holding the familiar, creaking door open for the pair.

Dark eyes flicker up at their bodies when they enter, at first with indifference, but then their monolid shape widens with a parting of the innkeeper's full lips. He regards the woman with a curious fascination, as if he can't quite believe that she's standing there, as if he's staring at the ghost of a long, forgotten memory, his mouth agape and his hands clutching tightly onto his desk. There's a pallid tone to his knuckles as he grips the wood so relentlessly, using it to hold up his large, rounded figure, and there's a paleness in his skin all of a sudden. Once flushed, sun-kissed flesh whitens in utter disbelief.

He scrambles for words. "Hell— wha— ah, uh— Sak— I mean— Hello!" He tries with conviction, suddenly grinning a beat too late to be convincing, although it's certainly as if he's stepping into the body of another. In an instant, an optimistic yet comical innkeeper is simply greeting his customers.

But Sasuke doesn't miss the way the man's gaze lingers on his female companion, just a second too long to be causal. There's clearly something significant about her, and, from the few pieces of dialogue he's picked out from his surroundings, he'll easily bet that this isn't her first encounter in the Blood Mist Village of the West.

"Good afternoon," she says flatly, ignoring the way the man is still practically quaking at the vivid hue of her tresses, "I would like to speak to Zabuza,"

Now, that certainly is a name the Uchiha recognises— he just can't quite exactly place where from. As if lost in the thick air of this socially arid town, the answer wafts in and out of the fog of his mind, so close yet just a centimetre too far from his grasp; the sensation lingers, reminding him that he holds the knowledge, but it only teases the desperation of his head, only exhausting him. He can't recall the name's relevance, and that in itself infuriates him.

The innkeeper smiles regretfully. "He just went to find ye, actually, and he won't be back for a while. Can ye wait?"

"I cannot," the woman states, cuttingly, "I have not the hour nor the circumstance, I am afraid, but I do hope you could pass along a message,"

With a scrupulous stare, Sasuke observes the proprietor with scrutinising intricacy; he fixates on the subtle nod of the much, dark eyes boring into the rustle of the older man's bread, and that knowing tone to the man's voice. "Okay," He says, already slipping a quill out from under the desk, as well as a piece of parchment. "But you have to—"

"Leave?" The woman supplies with a nod of her own. "I am fully aware,"

"Why's it so urgent?" It's Naruto who speaks up next, stepping forward as he does so. He thinks there's been an awful amount of fuss over something so little. "We don't seem to be in any life-threatening danger,"

The maiden sighs. "You are not in any, it is true," She agrees, taking the quill into her hand and beginning to calligraph on the paper. Sasuke tries to make out what she writes, but the font is too grand and pretty to be distinguished from his angle— he supposes she's doing it on purpose.

"Then—"

"I am," She affirms, not lifting her gaze from the calligraphy. "I am in life-threatening danger, not you nor your companion. Fear not, it is my head that they wish to decapitate,"

The blond goes to retort, but she shakes her head, silencing him.

When she finishes her letter, they make haste out of the Village Hidden in the Mist.

~ x Of Crimson Days x ~

October 10th holds great significance to Naruto Namikaze— it happens once a year, every year, without fail (like all three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of a standard year) always bringing with it a sense of pride in being, well, him. It's the capsule of many warm memories, the start place of his existence, and also a day that breaks his heart. Because of October 10th, the boy has experienced many things in his life— special dishes, memorable events, important friendships… and, well, he could quite easily go on for a while. He's become a knight, he's fallen in love, he's made a best friend, he's learned and taught and discovered many, many things. October 10th is his birthday, but it's also his own mother's death date. Eighteen years ago, on this very day, Naruto Namikaze was born.

Today, however, he forgets his own birthday.

Well, okay, maybe not exactly forgets it...

He remembers the date— a blaring, blazing, burning ten— and all its significance, all its sentimental value, like he does his own name. His stomach, for the matter, bubbles with a joy at the thought of, in his opinion, the best day of the year; his eyes gleam with a childlike wonder, all bright and vivid, anticipating the presents and the feast and the ceremony to follow the morning of the day, the memories so joyous and sweet in his mind. He recalls the distinct scent of last year's two tier Victoria Sponge cake, topped with seventeen golden birthday candles and a chocolate piece labelled 'Happy Birthday' in white icing, and he reminisces the blend of gooey cake and strawberry jam on his tongue. It hadn't been his favourite, in honesty, for he's far more of a chocolate glutton than anyone else in Mangekyou, but Mikoto had especially picked it out for her, Itachi, Sasuke, Minato and Naruto himself to share together; that was once the tradition, to gather in the aging boy's bedroom with a cake and a few presents, to laugh easily for an hour before the extravagant party Mikoto always planned to commence afterwards.

At these parties— or galas, as the queen used to title them— the Namikaze would dance and giggle and eat and sing and bask in the attention without a single care in the world; for those evenings, he had been the prince of the night, and not his best friend or his best friend's brother or any other. The boy's birthday had been the best day of the year, indisputably, filled with personalised activities and people he both adored and even ones he didn't even know. He always looked forward to it, and he always looked back on it with the fiercest heat igniting his chest.

And yet, this year, his birthday is completely overlooked.

In fact, the Namikaze can't even state the month. The last time he glanced at a calendar, it was a few weeks before his accolade, at the very end of August. He has a feeling that he'll be ageing soon, for he knows it has been a little under two months, but he's never been good with time, either. This year, there's no soft voice singing him into alert, nor a cake held in his closest friend's hands or his father's soft, kind eyes. This year, he's walking through the snow, muscles sore and aching as his feet drag through thick layers of sludge and precipitation. This year, October 10th is just another, nameless day.

"I'm cold," the knight announces, referring to the dampness of his socks— hours ago, the wet ground had began to seep into his boots, and now, he can feel an ocean forming beneath his toes. With it, the air is harsh and bitter, biting at the tips of his fingertips as if it holds a grudge. Oh, how he loathes the winter season.

But, for Sakura, this is hardly winter. She'd be right, too, for it's October, as the blond seems to have forgotten, but even if it wasn't, it'd still be relatively mild. In fact, with a glare at the male's thin articles of clothing, she thinks it's quite warm— only, of course, it wouldn't be if she too was wearing so little. With a tug of her large, thick coat, repositioning it securely around her petite figure, the woman continues on without much consideration for the Namikaze; he'll live.

An image flashes behind her eyelids as she blinks; it quickly morphs into a complete memory, and a fond one at that. Sakura pictures the first occasion she ventured out into the world, Hanako's warm hand tightly gripping her own to warn off the common frostbite of the North. She remembers the pretty snowflakes falling into her sister's hair, casting a halo across the girl's head as she offered Sakura the most blinding smile; she recalls her elder sibling's giggles and the curse words Hanako had accidentally blurted out as she tumbled down a lattice of rime. It had been probably the best day of her entire life.

Sasuke, who is following behind the woman, tilts his head back to regard his best friend— Naruto is trailing behind them by a few paces, not ashamed in broadcasting his exhaustion. "No shit," Sasuke says vulgarly, the monarch's nose reddened with ice. The Uchiha has always despised the cold, even as a young boy, feeling particularly out of his own skin under the inches of snow.

Mangekyou has only ever recounted a snowy day once, about forty years before his own birth, otherwise warm and clear-skied, or even sometimes wet; their fabrics and attire are made with thin but slightly insulating materials, designed for the summer climate of the Crimson City, one waterproof coat left in the backs of their closets just in case, on the rare off-chance, that it rained. Blizzards and snowstorms are scarcely known to the 'Mangekyians' at all, and if they are, it's by distant story-telling of a cousin's aunt's grandmother's old friend's travels. No one used to leave Mangekyou, for it had everything a person desired and kept out all the things less desirable; Sasuke himself had never, ever really left the kingdom, back when he was simply a spoilt prince, but he'd been outside the walls that surrounded the main city itself, training in the forest that surrounded the outskirts of the city.

The male's statement is ignored, however, if even comprehensible over the howling of the wind. He doesn't really take offence, too occupied with his own internal monologue, his mind hissing out insults at the weather; neither he nor Naruto can move their fingers, now, he's realised, but their companion seems quite content. In fact, he supposes this is a natural occurrence for her, walking in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mountains of snow— she seems like the type, although he doesn't even know what he actually means by that. How can that be a type? He shrugs to himself, rolling his eyes at his own idiocy. This whole mutiny thing really has him acting out of character.

But Sasuke supposes that it's to be expected.

Admittedly, half of his previous identity had been solely 'prince'— or well, Itachi's back up, anyway— but now, he's prince to no kingdom, really. Now, he's just a wanderer, following some woman he doesn't know to some place he doesn't know, aimlessly and without any of his prior authority. There's a chance that he may never return home, and he knows that fully, and he may live the rest of his life out like this; drifting from place to place, hoping that the next 'place' isn't going to be some bandit village filled with murderers and mercenaries. Never in his life has he felt so lost, and yet, never in his life has he felt so free. Even under the orders of Hanako, who truly puts the previous king of Mangekyou to shame with her sternness, he feels liberated and unattached and just, plain free— he repeatedly contradicts himself, too, and honestly, he's really beginning to hate it.

"Tell me again where we're going," Naruto instructs to no one in particular, but the rosette seems to be too far gone on another pane to even comprehend his words. It may be the rough, screeching air, but she's seems too distracted in her own thoughts to listen to him, Sasuke thinks, which he imagines is a frequent event in her life— the woman clearly prefers to keep to herself, much alike to him, to such an extent that she mentally isolates herself from situations. Of course, he could be wrong, but he has a strong feeling tide with this theory. Ugh, what's going on with him? He's never been so interested in someone else before.

The Uchiha tries to focus on the sencery. He absorbs the white pigment in like a sponge soaking up liquid, dark irises flickering rapidly from the magnolia trees to the ivory ground, to the pallid sky and— and to the milky hue of the woman's jaw. He hisses. She's too captivating. Well, actually, he doesn't think that's quite it. The woman is pretty at best, not exceptional or otherworldly, with an attractive face and an attractive body, he can concede with ease, and yes, maybe her hair is a thing he certainly cannot get off his mind, but it's not that. He can't name it, can't even quite place what it is, but there's something else that draws his eyes to her figure as if he is a moth and she, a magnificent flame.

He's interested, he'll summarise. That in itself is uncharacteristic enough as it is.

"Sasuke?" The blond prompts, expecting him to have more knowledge on their destination than the knight himself.

He doesn't— but he's also Sasuke Uchiha.

"Hn," He replies simply, unwilling to disclose his lack of knowledge.

But, whilst he is Sasuke Uchiha, his best friend is Naruto Namikaze.

With a sigh, the blond jogs passed the Uchiha, forcing his way through the thick snow and angry wind, until he eventually is beside the only woman of the group. At first, he just watches her, her blinking eyes allowing pastel lashes to brush against one another, but then, he grows impatient. After a few paces, he's grabbed on to her forearm, instantly earning a hard glare from the stranger. She stares at his hand like it's a disease spreading through her skin; she's quick to shrug him off.

"What?" Sakura asks, surprisingly more bored than irritated. Emerald gems are now gazing up at the Namikaze expectantly.

He grins, enjoying her attention— basking in it, in fact. "I can't remember where you said we were heading," He says, more as a question than a statement, really, an inquiring lift in octave on his last syllable.

That's a thing the Haruno has found; this strange, blond boy never seems to stop asking questions, or, in fact, talking in general. He's like a tempest, she thinks, relentless and constant, always aggressively active. He just talks and talks and talks and talks. His words are, most of the time, meaningless, too, as if said just for the sake of saying something, holding no real substance other than to— what was the word he used? Bond, that was it. He waffles on, filling up empty silences, just to bond. To say it doesn't touch her heart would be a lie. She's grown quite fond of his bubbly optimism, even if it's sometimes an inconvenience.

Sakura readjusts her shoulders in a slight roll, as if to truly free herself from the lingering sensation of his touch, before drifting her eyesight to his face. With a courtesy smile, for she's had etiquette drilled into her since birth, she answers, "Well, that might be because I never did tell you,"

The blond takes no offence. Instead, he chuckles to himself, eyes dropping down ever so slightly before they're on her again. "You don't tell us a lot, do you?" He affirms in a low voice, somewhat softly.

The question takes the woman by surprise. She's aware that she's been hardened over the years, that she's somewhat distant and unapproachable, but she's never once considered herself to be antisocial— or, well, unable to make conversation, at least. She's never felt that she's particularly elusive or the she's a type like the other male that's now lagging behind them, even if she is certainly more withdrawn than she once was. Sakura has never once pictured herself as that sort of character.

Yet, here she is, relating to him on an astral plane; she's elusive and she's hardened and she, whilst not being cut from his cloth at birth, has certainly begun to morph into it.

Fuck, she doesn't want to be anything like that brooding, arrogant, self-important ass. She thinks he's rude and impudent, unappreciative of everything she's endured within the past few hours for his sake, the most conceited man she's ever met and completely, utterly, indisputably selfish. Whilst she doesn't hate him— she argues that he isn't quite relevant enough for such a passionate emotion— she definitely dislikes him a lot, and is looking forward to the second she'll be without him, again, with an intense longing.

"No, I don't suppose I do," She reiterates, slipping back into her informality— it's been too long since she's spoken like a normal person.

Her mother had always scolded her for speaking like Hanako, saying that she'd never get married or find love with such poor etiquette, but Sakura always ignored her as a child. Then, her father and sister died, the sole two people she knew who spoke 'informally'; after that, she thought of it as some form of curse. Not wanting to tempt fate, she'd use long-winded phrases and awkward-sounding verbs, strange conjunctions and fancier nouns, just in case it would somehow lessen the Devil's seduction. Now, however, her formal mother is also dead, meaning that Sakura's vocabulary spiritually equivalates to absolutely nothing.

What a waste of damn time on her part, she thinks viciously, her heart no longer wanting to be evoked by the death of everyone she's ever loved— She's growing colder by the second, but she thinks that, if she doesn't, her heart would break into so many pieces that she'd be kissing the Devil's lips. At least, this way, she's learning to wear enough armour to guard herself from any future anguish.

God, she hopes there won't be anymore, though. She hopes that her karma will only result in warmer, happier times. She thinks she at least deserves some retribution.

"And that's okay," Naruto smiles blindingly, his words are soft and understanding, yet are also said with so much conviction that she cannot help but believe every syllable. "But I'd like for you to open up to us a bit more— Not that you should feel pressured to, of course, but no one really wants to be alone, you know, and so you shouldn't feel like you are— or that you have to be,"

She doesn't know quite what to say to that, feeling both uncomfortable with his sentimentality and also unequivocally touched by it, and so she just offers a meek smile.

On the other hand, Sasuke seems to have a lot to say about it. The dark haired Uchiha snorts loudly, parting the pair with his arms as he steps between them, his legs carrying him further and further away from his companions. The two people, who are now staring at him in somewhat disbelief, watch his diminishing figure for a second, confused, before the monarch gruntles out an agitated justification. "As much as dying of hypothermia seems like a truly riveting experience, I would much rather get out of this cold and not watch my fingers fall off from frostbite," He says bitterly, not even slowing in pace or turning his head to address them. "Or are you also going through a suicidal identity crisis, Naruto? It seems to be in trend,"

Naruto gasps as the Uchiha flickers his gaze pointedly to the woman, his cerulean eyes widening in alarm. Within two steps, he's caught up to Sasuke, the woman only a few paces behind them. "What is your problem, you stupid bastard? She saved our lives, Sasuke, whether your choose to acknowledge it or not— don't fucking disrespect her like this,"

The Uchiha rolls his eyes. "Would you look at you being such good little knight in shining armour? How cute," His steps remain at a steady step, in no way foretelling the anger boiling inside him. "Your father would be so proud,"

"You always go back to the same narrative, you know? You're not original nor do you hold any foundation to your arguments. You're just sensitive about yourself and insensitive to others. I don't know what's been going on with you recently but—"

"You don't what?" The monarch stops abruptly, seething. "Tch, are you not supposed to be my closest, dearest friend who I am suppose to prance off into the fucking sunset with? Where are you sappy little childhood promises right now, huh? Where your loyalty?" Sakura has never seen a man so furious in her entire life. His eyes whip to her, and she swears they're a bright, flaming crimson. "As soon as some suicidal bitch appears, you get completely blindsided by your sexual desires, thinking with only your dick and not with your dumb, moronic head. It is pitiful, Naruto, honestly, I never thought you to be so fucking weak,"

"I'm not weak!" Naruto shouts back, his voice loud enough to echo in the trees. "And my word is not empty, Sasuke, you know that better than anyone!"

The woman doesn't really understand what's going on— and she doesn't really care either— but she can feel that they're seconds away from alerting the entire plain that two men from Mangekyou are here. Which wouldn't be good, at all, considering this particular plain's political standing.

"Do I?" The prince asks, a heartless glare evident across his features.

Immediately, her fingers are grabbing both of them by their collars, hoisting them down to her eye line. "Will you two stop with this charade? We're in the middle of the East, not your wonderful, capital South," She lets them go, pushing her way between them just as Sasuke had, continuing in her stride. "To answer your question, Naruto, we are going to Sejimura— a place you do not want to attract attention in, let me tell you, so I advise that both of you stop with these childish bickerings and compose yourselves at once,"

"Tch, you sure ask a lot of us," Sasuke retorts somewhat under his breath, but he's already begun following her.

"Just as you both ask a lot of me, too," She responds without missing a beat, turning her head to glare at the boy's scowling profile. "But hey, feel free to 'prance off into the fucking sunset', I won't be the one getting killed,"

After a few more beats, Naruto reverts to his usual self. He amicably glides through the snow, a resting smile on his lips as his mind brims with curiosity. "What's in Sejimura?" He asks simply, thinking aloud.

At the question, a mirage of hues and bone structures flicker behind the Haruno's eyelids; joy-filled events and candle-lit, rose-tinted memories ignite a soft glow in her petite chest, a chorus of laughter resounding with the pattering of her heart. She recalls a vibrant man in a vibrant village, with vibrant jokes and vibrant songs— her time in Sejimura had been transcendent of the earth's humane atmospheres, emitting so much life that it had once felt as if she had stepped through the gates of Heaven itself. It was once a beautiful place filled with beautiful, soulful people… but she's heard rumours of its downfall. She's heard that it's not immune to mutiny, and she's heard that it learned that in a way perhaps even more brutal than Mangekyou had, just a week or so prior to now. After all, the higher you go up, the harder you fall down. She suspects Sejimura will be a great example of that.

The woman sighs, hoping that she's wrong. "Not much," She replies vaguely, her gaze wandering in thought. "But it'll have a way for you to return to Mangekyou," She turns her head to gage their reactions.

And, well, the way the Namikaze's jaw drops is rather comical, she thinks, it being not too far off the ground. It's rather impressive, she'll even venture, but the alarm that completely consumes him is almost too frightening an expression to be laughed at. There's an unequivocal gravity to the stern narrowing of his otherwise big, blue eyes, a darkening in shade as his lips tighten into a firm, precise line and his vessels pop at his cheeks, variegating his sun-kissed skin. In contradiction to everything she sees, it's as if he pales into a ghostly hue of ivory, too, his irises so navy that they're near enough black by now. She almost flinches in her stride.

"We can't," He states.

"You can," She argues with a grounded head, yet equally as defiant to his wishes as he is to hers, "I understand that Mangekyou is going through some— well— trouble, but the—"

"It's not simply trouble!" He spits, aggressively. "It's mutiny! It's anarchy! It's political upheaval! It's—"

"Another synonym?" Sakura drawls, not bothering to slow her pace any further. She's not surprised at the Namikaze's outrage, but her interest is piqued to see the other male's complete lack of emotion and response to the exchange. "Listen, Mangekyou may have recently fallen apart, I understand, but I can tell you that the rest of the world has been crumbed piles of rubble, unable to be repaired, for centuries. You were lucky to live in such a stable city, but now, I welcome you to the normalcy of Earth— pain, anguish, torment… is there another synonym you wish to supply? You seem to be quite good at them,"

Naruto gapes, unsure, for the first time in his life, of how to respond.

"If we return to Mangekyou, we will be killed," In a switch of a roles, it's Sasuke to answer. "My blood is worth a pretty penny,"

The woman sighs. "What a cliché, hm? It is not your blood that is worth anything, it is your name. If you cut us all, our blood is red. Blue blood only exists as a title," She clears her throat, accelerating in speed, "Come now, there is no use debating this further. Wherever you go, death will follow, no matter what blood resides within, do you understand?"

And even though she asks a question, she's already disengaged from the conversation by the time either of the lake can stutter out an answer.

They don't say much for the rest of the journey.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

"You did exceptionally well, Shisui," A woman says.

She sits on the Mighty Mangekyian Throne as if she had been fated to at birth, her elegant posture impeccable and her lavender eyes firm. She oozes dominance, a battalion of eager soldiers at her beck and call, the feminine crossing of her legs perfectly calculated and precise. As if the word is her chessboard, she manoeuvres her stare over her men's faces, analysing every ruffle in their tunics with practised excellence. Her winnow rests on a particular, black-haired man.

Shisui pretends his stomach doesn't churn in disgust at the comment— Why, to be complimented and praised for murdering his own best friend! How could that possibly satisfy him? He wants to empty his gut once again, to feel the vomit be expelled passed his lips for a second time, and to bathe in his own shame and self-loathing. He wants to shut out the world, to escape its tormenting rules and spit on its guidelines… Shisui Uchiha is sick of a being pawn.

Oh, how he wishes to be a bishop once again, he thinks fondly. Itachi, the onyx queen, and Shisui, his foolish, onyx bishop— But, in this game, in this version, he is a mere magnolia pawn, controlled by the Hyuuga's magnolia fingers and their magnolia, speculating gazes, in this magnolia world. On this board, the onyx cannot win. On this board, the onyx pieces are plucked off and the game is rigged by the imminent stroke of death. Life fights against the coup d'etat's of the soul in a losing, struggling battle. The Uchiha are lost. He is lost.

"I am honoured, m'lady," He says kindly, but his lips do not twist upwards in a vibrant grin, nor do they crinkle the corners of his eyes in content, nor do the hold any sincerity— And the magnolia queen is all-seeing.

With a cat-like smirk, the Hyuuga chuckles darkly. Her slender fingers smooth out the silk of her hair, straight locks twisting around her thumb as she sinks metaphorical teeth into the man's flesh. Her eyes leave indents in his heart. Suddenly, he feels an awful lot like the tresses around her digits. "Are you?" She laughs, amused, an omniscient gleam to her pale irises.

A glass grin shatters into a mortified gape.

His expression instantly shifts, muscles tensing and creasing his otherwise firm skin. Shisui's bloodshot eyes widen comically, his veins pulse so erratically that they appear across his forehead, and his hair suddenly dampens as if a storm has begun brewing above his head. Although his lips are forced apart by the gravity of her words, his throat has never felt tighter; his swallows grind against rocks, dry yet unbearably hot, the beating of his chest a continuous, rapid beat against the rough pebbles of his larynx. He feels every fibre of his being scurry in panic, a pounding, flowing, cutting, numbing sensation suddenly possessing everything he's ever known— he only hears static for a moment, a crowded yet empty chaos hammering a blinding light in the back of his head. He sees nothing, he hears nothing, he feels nothing. Everything hints him at once.

He can't breathe.

"My, would you look at your expression!" The matriarch gleefully exclaims, a madness in the terrifying hue of her pearl orbs. "It certainly is rather delicious, if I do not say so myself,"

Despite the jittering of his fingers and the quaking of his limbs, he smiles through his hysteria. "Pardon, m'lady? I am afraid that I do not follow your trail of thought," The male is fully aware that his voice contains more cracks than dawn itself.

"Honestly, not many do," She drawls, a playful roll dancing behind long, extravagant lashes. He thinks she's very pretty. "That would be one of the hardships that accompany being a renowned genius— though I suppose that I would not consider trading it for common intelligence,mind you,"

Pretty, but very, very vain. Shisui compares her somewhat to his younger cousin, the single living heir of the Mangekyian throne, with her conceit and solely self-interested glowers. He ponders if placing a mirror in front of her would allow his escape of the situation— he can imagine her superficial, ogling stares at its reflections, the pandering of her hands as she hurries to fix a singular misplaced hair. On the other hand, the Uchiha will certainly surrender that her wits are transcendent of both himself and his cousin, although he doubts any could rival that of his best friend.

Previous, deceased best friend, that is. The man's heart aches at the thought, a pang of guilt punching at his gut.

"But alas, my eye is too keen to be played by your deceit, Shisui. Your irises glow red, as red as your blood and the cloth of your insignia," The woman laughs. "An Uchiha through and through indeed, I concede, it is a far more loyal race than the Hyuuga. You weep, true to your brothers, is that not so?"

"I—" Shisui chuckles, although it's awkward and leaves a burn in his throat. "Uchiha's are heartless," He supplies, blankly, not really knowing whether he, himself, believes it or not.

It leaves a halted, thick pause in the air, one that beckons the silence of his mind into a chorus of insanity.

He's heartless, a voice whispers in the darkest depths of his consciousness, leaving a biting pain in the temples of his head. He's heartless, it sings, replaying the images of his best friend's corpse. What kind of cousin, or even person, would murder Itachi Uchiha, the kindest man on the face of the Earth? He's heartless, for no man with a heart could watch the blood of his closest companion dry, let alone drown the floor in it. He's heartless, for he betrays his family, stabs his friends in the back, decorates streets in the crimson paint of the innocent, abandons his own humanity, sets aside his morals… and honestly, his list of sins cease to have meaning after a while, a list so floral and extended that it becomes empty. His place is right beside the Devil himself.

And for what? He throws his everything away for what? This petty game these two households are playing? A chess game where the world is the board and every person is dyed in magnolia or onyx paint? He's losing his meaning, he thinks, his very sense of self. Well, he suppose that there's one real cause, one real factor that drives him to continue in his blackening bloodshed… But the words cut his tongue from his mouth and gauge out his eyeballs from their sockets. In the end, it all comes down to one, single ancient sin that brands 'DEMON' into their skins.

But Hinata Hyuuga, the Wicked Woman, laughs from her throne a cackle so evil that it rebrands his being into a pitiful, terrified whimper. "The Uchiha, heartless! What God-awful propaganda have you been allowing to brainwash you? There is not a race more compassionate, Shisui, sans maybe you, the black sheep of the Crimson Children,"

"I beg your pardon?" The man stutters.

"There is no need to beg, I will give you all of my pardons, if you wish. Your knowledge, however, is rather disappointing," Light lilac eyes narrow in mischief. "Oh, do not tell me you killed your best friend on the account of being evil, now? How superficial. Because Itachi, though a cunning politician, was far from any ingenuity. He was annoyingly kind-hearted, truly a blessing to humanity— and, in complete honesty, gorgeous— but he was too much of a pacifist, you know that. His flouncy, do-gooder manners slowed everything down into a bloody freeze-frame, you know?"

The Uchiha fights the urge to throw up, his stomach churning in disbelief. "Itachi Uchiha was an obsessive, insane control-freak," The statement is merely a justification to himself.

"Obsessed with peace, yes, insane because no one is that much of an optimist, true, and he knew how to lead an army with excellent precision," She shrugs, allowing a trail of hair to drip down from her shoulder and onto the throne armrest. "Truly a force to be reckoned with— ah, well, I suppose that holds no truth anymore. He was a force to be reckoned with, and reckoned with him you did. And now? Here I am, seated on his bloodied throne," The woman laughs again, dramatically. "I do love a good plot twist, you know? Makes this world domination thing so much more interesting,"

Shisui's eyes have began to dry, his eyelids so wide for such an extended period of time that he hasn't blinked in a while. In fact, he's certain that he hasn't breathed for a while, either, and maybe his heart stopped, too, and his brain blanked completely. To be honest, the man can't discern reality from his own crazed delusions. He's probably dead, he wouldn't be surprised at this rate.

"World domination? That's rather— uh—"

"Melodramatic?" Hinata Hyuuga suggests with a vicious grin. "That is certainly the case, but it should not take you by surprise. Mangekyou and Byakuugan have aimed for absolute power since the founding of monarchy— as has every kingdom, although none have been as near success as we of the Hyuuga. Itachi wanted to switch things up a bit, you know that, so I have no doubt that my father felt threatened—"

"You think your father ordered the assassination of Itachi Uchiha?" Shisui can't hold his tongue. "For someone who is self-proclaimed to be such a genius, that is a foolish theory. The one who ordered me—" As if realising the words about to spill from his tongue, he bites it in fear of not being able to stop himself otherwise.

That secret will come with him to the grave.

"Do not lie to me, Shisui, not anymore than you have already done so. I am bored of your games— my father himself admitted it in an official Declaration of War, so I know of your slander,"

"Of course, m'lady," He concedes, despite the argument rising up his throat like bile. "I will never dishonour you enough to lie again,"

Lies.

So many lies.

"This conversation is leading us into ruin, Shisui. Leave and execute the remaining Uchihas, we are running out of time,"

His heart freezes.

When he had first been assigned this mission, he knew that he would have to murder all of his kins without any regard, but to actually carry it out… To force an Uchiha to enact mass genocide upon the people who raised him, it's too cruel. He'll be making himself an orphan and, before he even comprehends it, he has a premonition that he'll be reading over his own eulogy and signing his own death date. He just hopes that Sasuke and Obito are long out of Mangekyian fingers, settling down and changing their identities. He hopes that, although he loves them dearly, he'll never have to see them again.

"But— but we do not have all of the Uchihas within our captivity— how— we cannot—"

"Are you always this articulate?" The woman sighs. "Find the prince and the knight, and, in the meantime, I will send for Mikoto Uchiha's official execution. When you return, we shall watch their heads fall from their shoulders with delight, a glass of the finest wine in our hands as we do so,"

He turns to leave, no longer able to hiss out a response; his heart is shattered, his feelings dangling in a skewered pile of indistinguishable mush. A pressure at the back of his eyes reminds him of the screaming, trembling urge he has to do just that— scream and tremble, until he can scream no louder and tremble no more furiously. He's surprised that he's managing to walk upright, in fact, his legs already numb and withered from the exhaustion of his mind. A sardonic essence in his brain applauds him.

"Oh, and one more thing, Shisui?"

His body hasn't finished fully turning when he hears it. "The North seems rather suspicious— espionage tells us that you should head there, that is, according to Orochimaru,"

Suddenly, the numbness and the withering of his legs becomes very apparent as he hits the floor.


	8. The Oak of Half Past Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obito and Kakashi delve deeper into the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of the Mangekyian Uprising.
> 
> Our protagonists finally get a chance to bond, though not without some rough disagreements. 
> 
> An adventure begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because I’m super forgetful. Sorrrrryyyyy :(
> 
> Also, again, italics didn’t copy through. And, like very single chapter, this is super unedited.

A man stretches, his muscles rippling into hard lines as they tense. Firm, unrealistically present lines remain between thick bulges, stark abdominal muscles pulsating as a V-shape glistens with sweat. Deciding against requipping himself with a shirt, the male remains shirtless, inhaling too quickly and rapidly to stop the flush of vermillion from tinting his cheeks, his forehead and his hands. Beads of condensation drip from his hairline. His eyes, dark and calculating, watch the violet wallpaper designs with intricate detail, inspecting it with a palpable scrutiny.

If he notices another man come in— which he in no way couldn't if he tried— he says nothing, keeping the same stoic expression. The silver locks of his hair hold themselves perfectly, even against the aggressive rise and fall of his chest, and sway as much as a stationary building. Despite his panting, the knight is impeccably pacific, impeccably cool-headed. He just stands silently, breathing, allowing his thoughts to compartmentalise themselves as his irises fixate on the walls.

An Uchiha stumbles in his wake, clumsily and loudly barging through the door, shattering every essence of serenity. His movements are awkward, jagged almost, but his eyes birth the most elegant shade of onyx into the world, vibrant and warm and so bearably humane. They contrast greatly to the other's, his aura reminiscent to a stealthy cat, but his eyes belittling and robotic. The other still doesn't move.

"You know," Obito announces, that same chirp stuck in his vibrato. "Staring at a wall is productive to no one and, despite whatever handbook you're reading out of, is not cool,"

At those words, Kakashi's nonchalance melts into a bemused grin, a slight chuckle gliding from his throat. In one effortlessly fluid motion, he's already turned his entire body around to face his companion, the upturn of his lips welcoming the Uchiha more than any verbal greeting. Kakashi nods, still amused. "Handbook?" He asks. "Please, I would love a handbook on how to be cool,"

"Yeah?" The other prompts with a nod, his expression mocking and sour. "Because you definitely need one. You're the lamest cliché I have ever had the misfortune of meeting,"

The silver knight pouts, but there's still a smile slipping through. "No sarcasm today, Obi? You know I cannot take these genuine insults,"

"The insults I give you are only ever genuine, sorry," He mock shrugs. "Hard to compliment a rock,"

The captain's lips stretch upwards in an instant. Kakashi steps forward, laughing, gaze filtering to the floor for a second as he does so. When he's only an inch away from the other, his intense sky-grey eyes lock in on the arch of a single dark eyebrow, noticing a single bead of sweat, piercingly analysing the shorter male in one fast once-over. "You have been running," He observes aloud, his expression hardening a little.

Darker eyes glance down at his bare chest for a single second. "And you've been doing a lot more than just running, I can see," Obito argues in his usual defensive manner. "What's your point?"

With a considerate tilt to the man's head, Kakashi bites his lip in surrender, understandingly, but he's eager to revert to his renowned characteristics— the humour of those two metallic hues drain in a sole heartbeat, the upturn taking a down as his lips straighten, his shoulders broadening and his height towering in the mere time span of the inhalation of oxygen. As if shedding the bleeding, laughing, crying, fighting— mortal side of himself, his eyes scan like a machine. His eyes scan as a machine. His eyes are a machine.

The air shifts, thickening, their usual light-hearted banter dissipating in the blink of an eye. Kakashi knows something, the black-haired male immediately concludes, that omniscient sparkle tauntingly present under the captain's eyelashes. The way those argent pigments scan up and down, back and forward in such a hasty, searching manner suggests that he suspects Obito might know, too.

Monotonously, following the his own perfected intuition, the male affirms to Obito that "You only run when you are upset," as he crosses arms over the hard pectorals of his torso. His sight obsesses over each abnormal quiver that his companion emits, and he is a hawk when it comes to obsession. Every slight tremble in the Uchiha's fingers, he views as clearly as an earthquake. Nothing escapes his notice, and the other man is furiously aware of it.

The other man sighs, crossing his own arms, flickering his stare at anything but the intrusive leader. Hard lines form across his forehead, between his eyebrows and at his eyes, as those cutting dimples smooth out, his eyes darken under the heavy shadow of his brow bone, and his jaw clenches in frustration. Breathing unevenly, Obito brings his annoyance to focus on the man in front of him, his eyes following expectantly.

"I—" His voice falters, his eyelids closing for a few seconds as he rebuilds himself. "I learnt who killed my cousin," He says definitively, emotionlessly, before his own hands are gripping at his facial skin, his lips hissing out in anger. He buries his nose into his palms, groaning out a harsh breath that he feels at his wrists, before pulling apart from his enclosure, staring at Kakashi with broadened shoulders and widened eyes. The Uchiha hates admitting it, fearing that it'll become truer with every word, but he does it anyway.

When the captain doesn't say anything, doesn't even blink with registration, the man presses on. "My cousin as in King Itachi, of course," He begins to ramble, rapidly. "Not Prince Sasuke, or my other cousins who are most likely dead, too. Not Shisui, apparently, for he has taken a— a leave of absence, if you will, from— from, well, moral decency, I guess. King Itachi was killed by Shisui. My cousin killed my cousin. My cousin was killed by my cousin— am I articulating? Because my tongue feels numb— uh, as does everything else, apparently," The movement of his lips are erratic, clumsy, completely unrehearsed and completely unfiltered, but the other knight still remains unfazed and passive. "And you, as always, are working out, defining your already impossibly defined abs, and not even contributing to the fact that my fucking cousin killed my other fucking cousin— who, funnily enough, is our fucking king," His eyes slam shut in agitation. "Was our king, I mean,"

Lips part to speak but they close just as quickly. Kakashi is unsure of what to respond, for the first time in a while, his eyes searching for something— anything to comment on.

"You are panicking," He tries, despite how blatant and generic of a phrase it is.

"Oh, really?" Obito laughs hysterically, with clear ingenuine. His face is contorted in disbelief, not accepting of the stupidity of his captain's statement. "What gave me away?" His syllables are cutting, angry.

A smile slips onto the silver knight's face, as if finally discovering a common ground. "Your erratic breaths, for one, and your inarticulate, rapid word-vomit, as well as the slight trembling of your hands. Your shoulders are shaking profusely, your voice is higher pitch than—"

"How are you so brilliant yet also such a complete and utter moron at the exact same time?" Obito groans, eyebrows furrowed and fingers squeezing between his temples. "That was obviously a rhetorical question,"

Kakashi's smile dissipates. "Oh, well, what is the point in asking questions if you do not require an answer?" He wonders aloud with gesticulations, his hands trying to wrap his head around his own words.

Sometimes— most of the time, in fact— the knight is literal and— well, knightly to a fault, Obito finds. He is skilled and talented and intuitive and many other flattering adjectives, excelling in all things physique and mind, stamina and wit, speed and agility, but, on occasion, he lacks the Uchiha's ability to smile freely and engage with another person. On many occasions, he is charismatic and charming without fail, but when concerning irony and humour and sarcasm, the Hatake is perplexed by the need of double-meanings. Of course, he isn't unfunny, the other man concedes, but he's almost too hardened and cold to laugh like a man who really means it.

"You know, that would be to have this lovely conversation right here, obviously, which in now way wastes time at all, clearly," The Uchiha leaves his sentence in the air for a second, allowing his words to resonate, before deciding against making the same mistake again. "And, prefacing that, before you start to— do whatever it is that you do— that was one hundred percent sarcastic,"

Kakashi chuckles out a sigh, a small upturn of his lips appearing as he regards Obito with intrigue. "Ah, yes, sarcasm— what a truly particular thing, hm?"

"Not really," The other deadpans, throwing himself into the nearest chair. His hair flattens out as he lands, coming to rest over his forehead, but he's quick to brush his fingers through it, flicking it back up in a single movement. "But we don't have time to be discussing the particularity of verbal techniques, Kakashi, we're at war. You of all people should be taking bigger action than— than whatever you're doing. Working out like always, standing around, waiting for the world to pass by you? You're the captain of the Crimson Guard, and you should be doing better,"

With a deep exhale, the captain falls into the only remaining chair, right beside Obito. He pauses for a moment, his eyes flickering to the single, tiny bookcase of the cabin, skimming over the four golden titles on the four purple book spines. Then, they jump to the windows, bare and without any curtains, and then to the single table in the corner of the room, and then to the vast floor, decorated only with sunlight seeping through the glass. It's of a similar interior design to the other cabins they've been venturing through, not willing to chance any public inns, but even more plain, with no more furniture for his gaze to rest on other than the two wooden chairs the pair are seated on. The climate is a little warmer, at least, their location being more southern than when they first started cabin-hopping.

"We cannot keep having the same conversation, Obito, it is growing tiring," He says after a moment, but his eyes have returned to the bookcase. They read 'The Kingdom of Thievery' with fascination, the book itself being a few shades lighter than the other three— the golden writing is whitewashed, too, it's spine withering and, if he were to open the book, the knight suspects that the pages would be very brown.

"Then don't give me reason to keep bringing it up, Captain," Obito says simply, but the words are hostile, like spitting oil on a pan. When he calls his leader with a respectful title, it holds no respect. Instead, the charcoal hues beneath his lashes contain within them a daring, challenging gleam, demanding the knight to stand up from his seat and purify Mangekyou of all its anarchy.

But the Hatake remains very stationary, his irises still fixated on that one book, his posture perfect as he sits. As if ignoring the entire topic of conversation, he asks with a bemused facial expression: "Do you remember, as a child, reading 'The Kingdom of Thievery'?"

Obito's face contorts once again, again reclaiming disbelief and annoyance. "Wha—"

"My father would read it to me, every night before he died," the knight confesses with a pained smile. "About the king who married a woman who, after having what we would call an affair, murdered the king herself. Then, she introduced her real lover to the kingdom, and he then entitled the throne, and she, her daughter and her lover ruled over the kingdom until it's bitter end. A tragic story of deceit and distrust, truly,"

"I don't get—"

"How it is relevant?" the captain supplies, his head finally turning to meet his companion. "I do not believe we have heretics in Mangekyou, or at least not ones who have plotted an uprising,"

"Then what do you believe?" Obito prompts, believing truly that the man before him can turn a child's fairytale into realism.

"I believe that we have an insider, a person who staged the uprising from within castle walls," he replies, his dark eyes finally meeting Obito's own directly. He stands, grabbing his dark shirt off from the arm of his own chair as he does so. "I believe we have ourselves a queen, a queen who harbours a Byakuugan lover,"

"You think someone of Mangekyian royalty allowed the Hyuuga to intrude?"

"Yes," he replies, shrugging on his shirt. "And I do not mean Shisui," Kakashi inhales, his eyelids shutting and reopening in a calculated breath. "I think we should stop looking for Prince Sasuke, and instead should start running for our own lives…"

He stares at Obito expectantly, now wearing a fully buttoned, black shirt. The Uchiha says nothing.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

Howling wind.

Vicious air.

Bruising ice.

Sakura awakens to a blizzard, she realises instantly.

Sakura, comfortable in her sleeping bag, awakens to the howling of a blizzard from the confines of her cave. Her eyes, resting peacefully just moments before, jolt open and her torso jumps upright in a second. From outside of the mouth of the cave, rime has built up at its entrance, snow is spitting and hissing just outside, the cave walls echoing the violent whistles of the air. As if her dream-like haze had momentarily numbed her senses, the frost hits her skin in a sudden, biting gust of air. Without warning, her bones are shivering uncontrollably beneath her pallid skin, goosebumps apparent all over her body.

She forgets she has company until a loud, soul-shattering groan has her head snapping to the side so quickly, it feels like she just gave herself whiplash. Forest eyes meet cerulean in an instant, but she immediately notices the greenish-white gunk that has formed in the corners of his eyes, the sangria beneath his bottom lashes that is deep and heavy, and the reddened hue of his sclera. Blond hair is disheveled and messy, its spikes each flattened and stretched out into different directions, looking almost comical despite the situation. A layer of dried drool has formed around his mouth, but he's quick to wipe it from his face.

He pulls himself up, to come and sit beside her, no doubt, yet also so he can inspect the weather at a closer range. With a yawn, he stretches out his back, his shoulders and the muscles of his upper arms, standing up as soon as he deems fit. In a second, he's across from to her, brushing his fingers through his hair and straightening out the fabric of his clothes. He rubs his eyes a few times, moaning at the dreariness of the climate repeatedly as he does so, before he's suddenly looking as attractive and well-put as always; his blue eyes are impossibly blue, his blond hair impossibly smooth, his grin impossibly wide. It almost takes her by surprise, even with her adjustment to his sanguine lifestyle.

"I would love to brush my teeth," He announces after a while, light-heartedly with a devilish grin, his voice thick with a morning rasp that she can not deny is far more masculine than she'd anticipate it to be. "Though it doesn't seem like we'll be able to get water any time soon. Any estimate on how long this storm will last?"

Her eyes shift to the mouth of the cave once again, observing the severity of the outside blizzard. "It could be days," she says honestly, remembering lesser storms that had lasted over a week, as well as worse ones that had lasted weeks.

"Ah, I suppose it could," he grins, ever the optimist. "I'm just glad we didn't get caught in it travelling here. A cave was a good idea, Hanako, it's easy to tell this isn't the first time you've done this,"

He'd be right, although the last time she made this journey, she took a path straight through villages and towns— all of which were close in attribute to the Mist, so she decided on the longer journey this time round. It's a safer call in terms of other humans, but now she suspects the weather can be just as dangerous. Either way, it's all just further proof that Naruto and Sasuke do not belong in her kind of world. They have to return to Mangekyou as soon as possible.

"When it stops, you must—" She begins after a moment of deep thought, her eyes wandering over the Namikaze's body.

"I know what you're going to say," the said male interrupts, shaking his head. With a sigh, he rubs his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. "And my answer to it is that you can't let us go back to Mangekyou,"

The woman hisses. "And why not?" She asks, her voice raising in volume without her even noticing it.

He scoffs immediately, eyebrows knitting together in disbelief as he pushes out his chest, pushing his back off of the cave wall he's been leaning against. There's an exasperated look about his eyes that she can't quite name, can't quite pinpoint whether it's the colour or the shape or the deep-set wrinkles around them. Something, however indistinguishable, screams to her that his pretty smiles are really only half of his story, despite everything she's been led to believe so far. He seems almost afraid of his hometown, of the kingdom he was born and raised in, and that fear is something she wouldn't expect from a clean-cut knight of a clean-cut palace.

"Because we'll die," He states back simply as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. There's a power, a bite, behind his words, but he never once crosses the line between that bite and real, aggressive violence. "We'll be tortured, killed, beheaded, slaughtered, shredded into pieces, eaten alive — all of the above, in fact, at the same time!"

His hands flail around in the air to follow and emphasise each syllable he utters. There's a humour even in the morbidity of his words, she thinks, that animated, vibrant character of his so refreshingly hilarious. Around him, she has to actively resist the urge to smile, feeling drawn to something so comical and humane about him— even though she certainly has no idea what it exactly is. Her heart shudders when she sees her father's face behind her blink, that cheesy, open grin so reminiscent of the man breathing right before her, right now.

"Right, I'm sure that's exactly the case," She deadpans with a slight roll to her irises, still not willing to waver. "But you cannot stay with me. Sejimura doesn't accept strangers, let alone Mangekyians on the run, and I doubt many other places do either. Just go home, I'm sure it's far safer than you anticipate,"

She's sure it is. Genuinely, even in its mutinous dynamic, she doubts it could hold a candle to the darkest parts of the North— of the Mist, of any town or village in the northern hemisphere. The North holds people just as icy as its land, hardened and bitter and cruel, people who contain no mercy nor any compassion; the North is dark, and it's darkest parts are a light-defying, inescapable abyss. Even she, a member of its sick, heartless family, is at knife's edge constantly.

Thinking of dark, Sakura has to combat the desire to put Sasuke at 'knife's edge'. His rasp, however, is truly pure silk. "We will die," he affirms in that low vibrato, consequencing their gazes to flicker into his direction. He's just sitting up, she realises, pulling his torso to meet a right angle.

Even in the midst of the North, even after death and anarchy and sleepless nights, even in a raging blizzard with raging winds and raging cold, he looks as indifferent and groomed as always. His hair isn't frayed, his eyes aren't anything but that captivating onyx, his skin is enviously smooth and monotoned; he looks just as he did yesterday and the day before, all hard lines and apathetic. In fact, he looks even more careless today, his eyes truly submitting nothing. So much for the window of the soul, Sakura grudging remarks to herself.

"We will!" Naruto agrees with his best friend enthusiastically, his voice bellowing too loud for Sakura at this time in the morning. "Killed on sight, without an ounce of consideration for our bodies. They'll probably fling us off into the moat as soon as they see us,"

The Haruno scoffs, pinching at her temples. "Well, then I hope you can swim,"

At her uncaring words, the knight gasps in a manner that she honestly thinks belongs in a novel. "Did I forget to mention the part where I said they fling our dead, lifeless bodies into this awful, infected, disgusting moat?" He seems outraged, like the noble lady in one of the stories she's read, one who is so appalled by the idea of eating with only one type of spoon. It almost brings her to laugh. "You can't swim when you're dead!" He exclaims it like he's just unveiled the cure of the plague.

"You won't be doing any swimming where I'm going then, either," Her tone hasn't changed once in this entire conversation, still mocking in a way, still unwilling to waver, but it takes on a more genuine warmth. "Look, I'm not saying this to clear myself of you, or as some sick joke, I'm saying this out of concern for your lives. If you stay here, you'll die. If that's bound to happen wherever you go, then wouldn't you want to be put to rest in your own home?"

Sasuke crosses his arms over his chest, his black shirt twisting uncomfortably around his (lack of) biceps— he clearly has never had any rigorous training in his entire life, his arms somewhat frail. "Do you not care that we will die?" He asks, with that same indifference that the woman has come to despise so vehemently.

"I can't help you anymore," She reiterates in response, angrier this time, a true fury brewing just beneath her tongue. She hates repeating herself. "I've done as much as I can, I'm sorry, but you have to leave as soon as the storm has stopped. It's indisputable, nonnegotiable,"

At her words, it's Sasuke's turn to feel a rage simmering in his veins. Soon, he knows that it'll begin to boil, completely evaporating all sense of his logic as he grows consumed by a blind fury— he's always been awful at controlling his anger, but recently, with this stubborn girl around, it's been unbearably difficult. Everything she says is straight out of some socialist parade speaker's mouth in Mangekyou, so defensive and personally attacked by everything and anything. He hates the commonwealth who preach about being the commonwealth, and she exuberates that exact characteristic in her very breath.

"So, you honestly don't care what happens to us?" The vulnerability in the knight's tone makes her feel like she's just kicked a puppy. "We could go back to Mangekyou, be killed and you wouldn't even look back? Is that what you're saying?"

That is not what she's saying! She wants to scream repeatedly, over and over again, at the top of her lungs, so frustrated by his inability to digest her words. Instead, she remains composed and attempts to conjure up something more bite-sized for him, something that he'll be able to gobble up like a fine soup. "What I'm saying is that, honestly, we're strangers, and I can't be held accountable for your life when I can hardly look after my own," She tries, although by the unimpressed look on both of their faces, she doesn't think it's being very easily 'gobbled up' at all. "You have to learn how to survive if you want to live, and with me is the last place that you'll learn anything,"

When Sasuke scoffs and the blond glances up at him with incredulous lines between his eyebrows, obviously at what she's saying, the woman realises that her words are definitely not like a fine soup. Her words are like stale bread— indigestible, unwanted, kept far away from the Mangekian knighthood and whatever blue-blooded family Sasuke clearly derives from. She wants to facepalm, or maybe even jump straight out of the cave and down the steep hill they've climbed half-way up.

"Then where do we go, Hanako?" Naruto asks, daring to break down the words like she's some child.

"Home!" She summarises, for what seems like the millionth time, her yell matching one of his earlier ones. "To where you live and where you've been raised. The Uchihas are alive, and they were the kings of Mangekyou. No Hyuuga is going to look twice at two, unsuspecting civilians,"

Not comprehending at all why, the woman feels the air thicken in the cavernous room, the freezing temperatures suddenly not so cold anymore. Both men are visibly affected by what she's just said, and she almost triumphantly declares 'fine soup!' loudly to herself, but the 'f' dies in her head almost instantly when she notices the intensity of Sasuke's stare. He looks bloodthirsty, honestly, his face stricken with unexplainable fury, his irises appearing a murderous crimson as they peak out from beneath his eyelashes like a flare— if she didn't know any better, she'd almost say that they were glowing.

"Wait," He instructs like a king, she thinks, his voice demanding and his gaze so terrifyingly belittling. "The— the Hyuuga were behind the attack?" He spits out the name like it's a disease.

Meanwhile, Naruto is panicking. He knows that his best friend is weak to the mention of his family, so easily triggered by even the first syllable of Itachi's name, and he's first-hand witnessed the extent of how far Sasuke can go when infuriated and— well, his best friend is certainly infuriated, alright. Although the monarch's physique isn't the most threatening, nor is his fighting ability, stamina or speed when concerning physicality, he can be dangerously stupid when pushed far enough. His tongue can fire insults made of bullets and drop nuclear truth bombs as easily as it can simply whisper, and Naruto fears one particularly confidential 'truth bomb'.

Considering the fact that the Uchiha is now the heir to the Mangekyian throne, since Itachi's already claimed it, it would be catastrophic if anyone— even Hanako— were to discover it. He feels beyond stupid and beyond idiotic and beyond asinine to even reveal the heir's first name, wanting to hit himself so painfully that the urge completely shrouds him. More than anything, at the moment, he is petrified that his best friend may expose everything to this woman.

With a wince, he attempts to stop him. "Sasuke, don't—"

"Of course, who else would it have been?" But he's clearly waited a second too long, for Hanako is already adding fuel to the Uchiha's very dangerous, very life-threatening fire. "They have the motive, the weapon and pretty much everything else that incriminates them. And, last I heard, Hiashi Hyuuga had the queen locked up in some tower,"

Oh no. Forget fuel, she's pretty much giving him an entire forest to set ablaze. Naruto wants to combust into a pool of tears, however contradictory it sounds in his head.

"He what—!" Sasuke seethes, rage manifesting as a thick, pungent aura right around him. The Namikaze closes his eyes in anticipation, waiting for the bomb to explode, before something unexpected happens— his best friend regains composure. With one simple exhale, his flame diminishes, his eyes blacken into a nochlance, his voice no longer toxic. "I mean, are you sure?" He asks, as if common sense has finally dawned on him. Naruto resists the urge to sing.

"You're more patriotic than I first originally pegged you to be, you know that?" The woman laughs, surprisingly, her eyes suddenly staring at Sasuke in a way that neither of the men have seen her look at something before. She regards him with fascination, complete infatuation and intrigue, as if the dark-haired male has suddenly morphed into something so much more than— than whatever she's been interpreting him as. "And yes, it's a known fact,"

Trying so hard to bite his tongue, but inevitably failing, Naruto is the first to respond to her alleged fact. "It isn't a known anything, it's an exaggerated, blown-out-of-proportion speculation. It was just heretics who attacked the castle, everyone knows that,"

A mirage of colours glisten in front of Sakura Haruno, her eyes seeing so much more. It's as if everything falls into place— these two men, these two Mangekyian strangers, hide inside so many secrets that they don't even know about. She thinks back to the real reason she went to Mangekyou, the reason that was not getting medicine or herbs for her mother, but was in fact the reason Orochimaru called for her those few years ago. She thinks about how it all interlinks, all melds into one truth that cuts her tongue from her mouth and gauges out her eyeballs from her sockets. In the end, it all comes down to one, single ancient sin that brands 'DEMON' into her skin, into everyone's skin. She wonders how much they really know, how much they'd despise her if they really knew, but she stops herself.

"Heretics?" She asks, almost playing along, as if she doesn't know of the coverup that was used to hide the foul scent of red-handed anarchy. Anarchy that was never actually anarchy, per say, but just plain greed.

"The civilians who became corrupted by the wrong ideologies," She thinks it's odd how invested and vocal the quieter one has grown, just at the right choice of topic. He's almost suspiciously passionate about it, as if there's really a lot more to him than being nationalist. "A whole band of attention-seeking 'revolutionists'—as they title themselves, but there is nothing revolutionary about murder,"

He's not wrong, she supposes, because there really is nothing 'revolutionary' about murder, but she thinks that, in this world, it seems like there can be no revolution without it. Swords and— and taking over a castle, killing its inhabitants and causing it's knights and princes to flee, for instance, is far louder than preaching about how the world needs to alter and adjust, transform and transcend. Perhaps in another, in a better world, violence wouldn't have to be the go-to whenever a problem occurred.

"And with what power did they 'attack the castle'?" She pretends like she doesn't understand 'the Power of the People', but no single person knows it better than her. "Their broomsticks? Their pocket watches? Their gossip? It's true, nothing beats the strength of a hundred large, gossiping kitchen wives!" Sakura scoffs with an eye roll, releasing her passion in sarcasm, despite wanting to say the complete opposite. She's not one to keep her mouth shut, but she also can't incriminate herself no matter what happens. "You can't tell me that you honestly believe that pathetic Uchiha propaganda,"

That, that she does mean. The lies the Uchiha spread were beyond pathetic, she thinks, blinding an entire nation of people from the truth— the truth which she's been hiding herself, of course, but the truth that could've just been hidden and not completely rewritten. It's excessive and deceitful and honestly, she's not surprised that the Uchiha Family would blame it on the lower class heretics. She despises those egoistical, conniving blue-bloods. They're the reason that her mother is dead.

"You are a fool if you believe that they hold no power because they are peasants," Sasuke is surprisingly more aware than she first realised, although his beliefs are certainly quite unaware. "Any great enough mass can cause a ripple— however slight, it all amounts to the cause,"

The blond beam of joy, as she's internally titled, regards her with an expression the rosette doesn't like at all. Slanted eyes, pursed lips, narrowed eyebrows— the knight stares at her like he would a convicted criminal. "But how do you know all of this, might I ask? It's been bothering me for while," He says exactly what she doesn't want to hear.

But he says exactly what flashes into Sasuke's mind, who in turn gazes up at the woman expectantly. She has spoken of many things that he assumes she does not have the right to speak of at all, her opinions on the state of Mangekyou sounding only uneducated and rather pretentious to the prince. Her theories and accusations fuelling beneath his skin an anger so violent, he has to coach himself into breathing to remain calm. She does not know anything. Itachi would never lie to him— Itachi, his brother, the one who told him that it was the heretics who ruined his life, would never lie to him. Sasuke would never believe some stranger over his own brother, anyway, especially not this infuriatingly biased, reverse-elitist woman. She does not know anything. His brother would never lie to him.

Over and over again, he repeats the words in his head as if they are stuck on a loop; She does not know anything. His brother would never lie to him. Over and over again, to a point that he almost forgets himself. She does not know anything. His brother would never lie to him. Even when he sees the determined twinkle in her sage gems, he recites that she does not know anything. Even when she brushes a lock that he finds so beautiful behind her ear, he choruses that his brother would never lie to him. This woman is a vindictive, conniving liar, trying to string him along into her unfathomable ideologies. She does not know anything. His brother would never lie to him.

"Don't waste your thoughts on me, I won't ever tell you anything," She says, predictably, before stirring the conversation back to her same stupid, unrelenting point. Why can she not comprehend that they cannot fucking go back? "What I will tell you, though, is that I can organise you both horseback for your journey to Mangekyou— where you can confirm or deny these 'exaggerated speculations', okay? It seems like you're already in deep-seated denial anyway, but it's worth a try,"

He is not in denial. She does not know anything. His brother would never lie to him.

"The heretics attacked the castle, there is no question," He affirms, again, emphasising each word like they are all their own individual, important point.

It makes the Uchiha smirk to watch his friend nod so passionately, as if the words Sasuke are saying are the most obviously correct statements in the world. "Yep, he's right," the blond idiot agrees, sounding less idiotic than usual in the monarch's opinion

"Men and their dumb, blind patriotism," The woman sighs, brushing the coral of her fringe with her fingers before flicking it back out of her face. "What, if big Daddy Uchiha told you that jumping into your 'infected' moat was sanitary, would you believe it? Because, if so, I'll be sure to let him now that before you're thrown into said moat when you return, okay? There we go, problem solved. It's been nice knowing you, south is that way," Slender hands gesture to the mouth of the cave.

At the mention of his father, an ache pangs in his heart, sending a shudder down his Uchiha spine. He briefly wonders how Itachi is managing, before refusing the trail of thought to enter his mind— of course his brother is fine, managing with precision and excellence that he himself can no doubt just envy. Soon, under Itachi's rule, he is sure that he will be able to return. Soon, he will see his mother, be able to hold and embrace her, to feel the strands of her silk hair against his cheek, to hear her gentle melodies as she sings both her and Itachi out of their misery. Together, with her and his brother by his side, they will bury their father accordingly. Soon, everything will feel like nothing but a terrible, awful nightmare. Soon, he will return home.

"You are unbelievable," He says simply, monotonously.

"No, what's unbelievable is that, although you conform so hard to Mangekyian, elitist journalism, you're certain they hold some vendetta against your safety," The woman hisses in return. "Double-standards are stupid,"

As if sensing her annoyance, a particularly violent gust of wind hits the back of the cave, passing aggressively by them and echoing throughout the cavern. It makes her hair flow out into a long, cascading mane, its different lengths wisping against the air. As it howls, her tresses dance in its song, so gentle and elegant that it almost takes the monarch by surprise. Naruto watches, too, entranced by her beauty, regarding the wavy locks that brush against her cheeks in absolute awe, noticing how quick she is to try and keep them out of her face.

Pretending to be completely indifferent to the woman's only good feature, the monarch keeps a plain face. "We were not told by journalists, do not be a fool, Naruto is a—"

He feels the knight's warning as soon as the first noun passes his lips, indenting his skin with the intensity of staring, morning-sky eyes. The blond looks as if he is about the pounce, his back arching forward as his shoulders hunch up closer to his neck, but the words have already lingered in the air for too long for Sasuke to take them back. Even as Naruto's eyes narrow into angered slants, even as his mouth tilts down into a scowl, the prince can do nothing but feel the words die in his own mouth, awkwardly and suspiciously. He does not dare to look at the woman.

Sakura observers the exchange between the two men in a light humour. The blond looks furious in that terrified yet angry way, like an inexperienced mother who has to scold her misbehaving child for the first time, the light from the mouth of the cave highlighting just one half of his face. The other side is lost in the turn of his head as he stares in warning at the other man, who in return grasps to salvage the motions of his lips. For the first time, really, there is not a single trace of indifference or anger, just untainted fear, fresh and foreign and panicking. It's a nice change, she thinks, before feeling as if the spectacle as gone on too long.

"A knight, yes, I know, I was present at his accolade," She confesses casually, watching their mouths drop, Naruto's stern line completely dissipating. "Which, for the reference, makes you just as blind-sighted as the Mangekyian media. No slave of the royal family could comprehend the real truth behind that event,"

But could anyone comprehend the truth that cuts their tongues from their mouths and gauges out their eyeballs from their sockets, branding 'DEMON' into their skins?

Sakura doesn't know why she's humouring these men anymore.

"What 'slave' do you refer to?" The blond asks, sounding uncharacteristically— or, well, she supposes that it's very characteristic in actuality—grounded. His eyes watch her with skepticism, so vigorous to dissect the secrets hidden beneath her skin. "What 'real truth' do you concoct?"

But the knight isn't the only one with a desire to unveil her innermost thoughts. "And, most importantly, how would you know anything?" Sasuke adds, but he's reverted to that stale, passive glare.

At this impromptu interrogation, Sakura suddenly feels way out of her own depth. Wordlessly, but certainly not breathlessly, the woman slides her sleeping bag down her body, slipping her legs out of it in a balletic glide. Without uttering a vowel, she daintily takes it in her grasp, folding its cotton material over her forearm. When she's done, she bites her lip in hesitation, hating the heat of their glares.

"Because I know a lot," She eventually replies, vaguely, a distance seeping into the tone of her vogue. "I will never tell you why or how, or what I exactly know for that instance, but you can know that I just do,"

The woman flinches as a hand slams down on the cavern floor, reverberating through the sepulchral grotto with a prolonged clangour. Hesitant sage eyes flicker to the pale skin of Sasuke's hand, one which has no doubt been made ruddy from the impact of the grey rock. The Uchiha doesn't even acknowledge his pain, and Sakura almost feels inclined to believe he doesn't feel anything.

"That is an inadequate answer," The words are seethed calmly, but like a calm rage rather than any depiction of serenity.

And yet, despite his demanding and brutish growls, the woman cannot find it in her to be— what does he even want her to be? Scared? Intimidated? Impressed? She feels nothing but a bubbling irritation

"It doesn't seem like you've noticed, but I don't live my life trying to— well, satisfy you. I save your lives from the eastern bandits and you repay me with this? Accusations?" She laughs incredulously, pulling herself up onto her knees. "I don't know how you're raised in Mangekyou, but in my country, we show gratitude to our saviours,"

Following by example, it seems, the Uchiha pushes his weight up to stand. "It seems as if I have grown blind— I saw no bandits,"

"We were chased, for one, and your friend had a sword to his throat!" The woman exclaims, finally lifting her body up until it's almost completely upright. The size of the cavern inhibits her from stretching out her spine, the plates of her back remaining arched.

Sasuke's bent equally as much, even with his towering height— his portion of the cave is much taller than hers, but it's as far in as the walls seem to go. Their current place of residence is not one of those endless, bereaving tombs that lie in perpetual darkness.

"Which he would have dealt with, had you not rudely interjected," He informs the stranger.

"Had I not rudely interjected, he'd be severely hurt or worse yet, dead. Flouncing around in Mangekyian armour in the safe castle walls of Mangekyou is different from fighting to survive. For the Mist, they learn how to hold a sword quicker than they learn how to walk," She's just inches away from him now, having taken multiple steps towards him, her form arching into him to exaggerate her point further. "They fight to live, not to defend some king on his safe, secure throne. It's different,"

"Then help us," Naruto, who has been watching the aggressive exchange from his place on the ground has finally taken a stand, both literally and figuratively. "We can't go home, not like this— not when we can't do anything but whimper before bandits,"

"I can't," The woman repeats. "You don't understand, but I just can't,"

"You do not have to train me yourself, just point in the correct direction and we'll never bother you again," His eyes fall to the floor, pleadingly, his voice softening in its desperation. "Please, just don't let us die,"

"You think someone will—" She's about to argue, to drown out his voice with her own, but the words halt in her throat when she turns to face him. He looks so— so terrified. Weakened. Dimmed. His cerulean irises appear grey, she thinks, drained of all their varidian sparkle. The woman rolls her eyes with a tut. "You know what? Fine. I'll take you myself," She concedes, her passion suddenly deflated.

Her words galvanize the man, invigorating that easily smile enough to spread widely across his cheeks. "Than—"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," She reprimands, but she contains no bite. "You're going to have to drop the whole 'I am a devout Mangekyian' act— in fact, you can't even say the word Mangekyou in where we're going,"

Naruto startles, a hurt expression crossing his features. "Why does everywhere seem to loathe Mangekyou?" He says the words as if he's been personally insulted.

Deciding it best to clear up the mess of baggage and cloth and scrap across the floor, Sakura busies herself in tiding her belongings. With a shiver, the woman instantly feels the need to wrap her fur cloak around her petite frame. "Well, if even its inhabitants hate it enough to send it into the depths of anarchy, you can't blame the rest of the world for doing the same," She suggests absent-mindedly, too occupied in her own task. "We should get packing, we're going to have to travel through the storm,"

"No, I suppose we can't blame the world, that's true, but at least these inhabitants you speak of have lived and experienced Mangekyou in its rawest. How is it fair that strangers, who only know of Mangekyou through petty rumours, are allowed to spit on its name?" The man has began gathering his own items, but Sasuke just sits silently in the corner. "They don't even understand Mangekyou,"

"Your nationalism is almost unhealthy, I'll be honest," Sakura quips. "And, Naruto, I think that's exactly it; People fear what they don't understand, you know? And fear breeds fake, construed myths that only accumulate further to that misunderstanding. But, on the other hand, I do believe there is some truth to every rumour, "

"I don't," The blond states simply, pausing to straighten his back out and stare into the stranger's eyes. "You can say anything, to anyone,"

"Yes, that's certainly true, but people are considerate enough to not just concoct false lies," Sakura states, unsure of whether she herself believes in it or not. She wants to believe in it, she knows that much, but the words seem too pretty to be at all realistic. Her hands don't hinder in her vigour in the slightest.

"That is a foolish statement," Sasuke remarks simply from against the cave wall, eyes blaring with forbearance. His face stares blankly at her in a lull, watching her hunched figure place the water bottle into the single leather bag she has, her long tresses dangling down. With a whoosh, she brings her body round to glare at him, still bent-back over herself, revealing the soft skin of her clavicle.

Her gaze flickers with annoyance, that viridescent hue darkening, appearing almost black in the perpetual shadows of the cavern. In fact, her entire face is hidden behind a cloud of darkness, leaving only the golden tones of her hair to shine in the backlight of the sun. No longer coral, the woman's hair shimmers with rose gold iridescence. Sasuke almost forgets the significance of seeing the sun.

Her lips morph into a scowl. "Well, I'm sorry that—"

"No, he's right. Some people like creating difficulties for others, and lying definitely does create difficulty, that's for sure," The blond omits with a heavy-hearted chuckle, slithering down the wall to sit back in his previous position. His things are clumsily thrown together, in an organised mess. "Anyway, we get it: no mention of Mangekyou or knighthood or whatever else we may be hiding. We need to keep it on the down-low,"

"That's right," Sakura nods, facing him now, but she still remains standing. "Keep it on the down-low, and you might see yourself training under my previous master in Sejimura,"

"Sejimura?" The Uchiha prompts, ignoring the way the light hits the woman's eyelashes, forcing them to shine a brilliant rose pink.

"I haven't heard of it, either, what's it like?"

Haruno irises regard them both with exasperation, fine eyebrows rising in question. "It's no different to any other place, really," She tells them with blatant boredom, bringing her body down to their levels, crossing her legs over one another. "It used to be better, and now it's a lesser form of what it once was— or, well, or so I've heard," She crosses her arms, too, eyes drifting to the mouth of the grotto, only just realising that the blizzard has stopped, the sun now consequencing sequins of glistening snow to glimmer a rose gold hue, so very prettily. It brings a light upturn to her lips.

Sasuke scoffs, meanly. "So you do not know either," He says in his usual belittling, cocky manner, and the fact that it's a statement infuriates the woman.

"That's not true, okay? I do know," She insists, upturn completely downturned. "I know a lot about Sejimura, far more than most people,"

There's a distant melancholy beneath her eyelashes, the Uchiha thinks, hidden so perfectly behind superficially attractive colours. Sage eyes, coral eyelashes, viridescent tresses, rosy cheeks, snow skin; the woman is a kaleidoscope of spring, melded into a single person just enough to brush everything under the surface. Then, he changes his mind. Her icy words, her icy glares, her icy scowls, her icy cynicism— she is no spring, just a winter so desperate to warm.

"Right, well then could you possibly be a little less vague?" Naruto asks with a abrasive cut to his octave, feeling even his own patience drain just a little bit. "Like beliefs, customs, traditions… you know, the necessities, the things that'll keep us alive,"

"You want to know the dos and don'ts of Sejimura?" The woman snorts with a shake of her head, that ever so familiar incredulity seeping back in. "This isn't a game, this is your lives,"

"Which is exactly why we need to know," Naruto says. "I know how the world works, I know that we will die without your help,"

The woman exhales roughy, tucking a loosening strand behind her ear. "You don't get a manual telling you what to say and what not to say in the world, Naruto," She instructs them with an emotion neither can quite place. "If that's how you think it works, then—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know that," The blond interjects instantly, blue eyes staring down at her. Oh, how reminiscent of a utopian sky they truly are. "Please, I'm begging you, help us," He pleads, lowly and softly, that occasional gruffness of his overtaking most of his voice.

The woman looks out at the mouth of the cave again, breathing deeply. She watches the sun peek through thin, blackened branches far away, shining over the surface of the snow, in complete antithesis with the earlier storm. Her eyes mark the miles of distance, as well as the depth of each and every hill, observing a possible pathway— it's too wet to simply climb up and down steep hills, over and over again until they find the right one, so they must be strategic in their journey. She must be strategic, at the very least. For a few seconds, she tries to isolate the romantic observations of colour and art, instead focusing on the geographical side of their surroundings. After a beat, however, she's noting how the baby blue skies drift into a light, metallic grey, all so pale that it's not too far from mirroring the blankets of magnolia ice.

"Fine, if you really think that it'll make a difference, then I'll humour you," She eventually says, still staring into the distance. "It's a True Eternal, almost like Mangekyou, but people don't leave or come in— they don't dream of anything out of the confines of its walls, its streets nor the capabilities of its people. No one wants to leave, no one talks of leaving and you won't be breathing a single syllable of leaving, okay? Leaving is like a taboo,"

"So we're going to a prison?" Naruto asks immediately, his brows furrowing together in discontent. He looks so unsure, and the woman is almost tempted to use that uncertainty to convince him to go back to Mangekyou. She doesn't give in to its temptation.

"No, it's a— a True Eternal of Spring," She bites her lip hesitantly, debating if she should be sharing her knowledge after all. One question can sprout into another so easily, she knows, and at the rate they're going, it'll end up in then having ten additional questions per the original one. "They don't want to leave, it's completely unheard of,"

Sasuke blinks, a blank expression crossing his face. "Uh, what is this True Eternal that you speak of?" And, if she didn't know better, Sakura would almost say that he looks sheepish asking. If she could be bothered to answer and isn't trying desperately to summarise the definition in her head, maybe she'd focus more on the bruised pride that flickers just beneath the white of his eyes.

"It's a state of climate, really," Naruto is the one to explain it to him, however. "The weather, like its name, is eternally the same. It never changes, it never fluctuates and it's definite,"

The blank look cross the Uchiha's face doesn't falter. "So like Mangekyou's all-year Summer?" He tries to understand, but eternal climate? That doesn't make sense to him.

"Well, almost," Sakura considers for a second, but her necessity to always be right triumphs. "But your temperatures vacillate, and you also get rain, and you've had a history of some storms, though very distantly in the past, and—"

"You're a weather enthusiast?" Naruto interjects, fascinated by her knowledge.

"Uh— well— no, not really, but I've—" Her mind scrambles for an excuse, anything to conceal the truth of why Sakura Haruno really went into the Mangekyou Kingdom that day. "I once considered moving to Mangekyou, so I had to research its climate to decide whether or not— whether or not I wanted to move to Mangekyou,"

Her words contain an embarrassing lack of conviction, so awkwardly articulated that alarms instant ring in the men's ears.

"You seem accustomed to the cold, why would its climate matter?" The Uchiha asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Well, in fact—" She attempts again, this time with a little more enthusiasm. "You see, I am very accustomed to the cold so I'm not that great at being— well, I'm not accustomed to the heat of Mangekyou— uh, I mean I wasn't before it went up in mutinous flames— is what I'm trying to say," Her face winces at the realisation of how awful she truly is at lying on the spot.

"Tch, that was articulate,"

"Excuse m—" Sakura goes to retort back, but the blond is already sick of the pair's bickering.

"Yeah, okay, so you're northern?" He interjects, but it's kind and intrigued.

The woman is about to respond, as if on instinct, but her thoughts finally recollect themselves, causing her eyes to shut in frustration. "Uh, what do you think that you're trying to do?" They snap open as she asks, as she digs her fingernails into her palms and shakes her head in disbelief. There's a hysterical anger in her lower, deliberately enunciated pitch. "Okay, let's set some ground rules here. You don't ask questions about my past or, in fact, anything to do with me at all, and only when that condition is met, completely and with no loopholes, will I ever consider helping you. Yes?"

Sharing glances, the men fidget in their positions, unsure of how to respond. Eventually, Naruto is the one to speak, though is words are hesitant and carefully planned. "Fine, I guess we don't have a choice," He says truthfully, before changing the subject as quickly as he can. "So, in Sejumira, it's always Spring, we don't mention leaving and— well, is there an and?"

"Well, perhaps you could pronounce its country right," the woman sighs, already mellowing out. "It's Sejimura. Don't, no matter what happens, even if it's the last thing you do— because it would be the last thing you'd do— mention Mangekyou," Her eyes lock onto Naruto's for a few seconds, before flickering to the other man. "Don't insult nor defend it, just remain neutral because you'll expose yourself otherwise, is that clear?"

The pair exchange glances again, and again, it's Naruto to respond. "Crystal," He affirms with a wide grin, ever the sanguine boy of sunshine.

At his agreement, the Haruno smiles a plastic smile, before pulling herself up from her knees and into a standing position. "Great, well, we best be going then, before another blizzard ensues," Her eyes wander around the cave as she squints in thought. "Are you done with your interrogation? Because this is your last chance to ask anything else,"

"Yeah, I'm done," Naruto smiles gently, smacking a hand on his thigh as if to prove a point, but then his cerulean irises flicker to his best friend. "Unless you have any questions, Sasuke?" He prompts, sounding like he's trying to entice something out of the other, in Sakura's opinion.

"Hn, I have none at this present moment," The Uchiha responds simply, almost snidely, before sighing in defeat. "But I do have a request,"

Of course he has a request. Why wouldn't he have a request? He's Hell-bent on ordering people to do things. Sakura resists the insatiable urge to roll her eyes and hiss out a colourful vocabulary of curse words.

She can't hold her tongue. "A request? That's bold considering—"

"You are infuriatingly defensive," The man interjects, standing up to gather his own belongings, which have remained in a perfectly tidy pile since their arrival. "It is simple, just do not call me by my name," He says with a slant to his eyes, daring her to challenge him.

"And why not?" She does indeed challenge.

"I called you Hanako without asking questions," He states simply, smugly, taking a step backwards to straighten out his back where the ceiling is higher up. The woman wants to roll off down the hill, despising that he's trying to best her. She won't be bested, especially not by the likes of him.

"Uh— okay, fine," Sakura upturns her lips mockingly, tilting her head just the tiniest bit as she does so. "Do you have a name preference, then?" She asks as if it's to choose a tunic for him, that hateful tone dancing on her tongue, and not for whatever reason he's blatantly hiding.

"Let's keep it simple, Sasuke," The knight finally decides to speak up, joining the pair in the higher latitude. With an almost regretful sigh, he suggests: "How about we go with Itachi?"

Sakura's head tilts completely, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. "Why would—"

"What—" Sasuke cannot contain his anger.

"Well, what a minute, it makes sense," He starts pointedly to the Uchiha, as if begging for forgiveness with only his eyes. "He's definitely in Mangekyou, for one, so there'll be no suspicion," his hands gesture in front of him. "Plus, it's easy to remember," His voice is soft, kind, as if the choice of person holds particular sentiment.

This name situation confuses the woman. She isn't an idiot, not by a long shot, but the conclusion is so close that it aggravates her, because she just can't quite pinpoint it exactly. "What suspicion would there be otherwise?" She asks, wondering what these people have in common with the first prince of Mangekyou, Itachi Uchiha. It just doesn't quite add up— are they both knights?

"Hn, Itachi it is," Sasuke states, disregarding the female completely.

"What suspicion—"

"No questions, we agreed," The knight says kindly to Sakura, throwing his bag over his shoulder, having already put on his cloak. "No pasts and no anythings, yeah? You extend us the same courtesy,"

The woman goes to argue, goes to open her mouth and disagree, but her earlier words bite her in the ass. "Fine," She says eventually, frustrated. She hates not knowing things. "Off we go then, to Sejimura," And then, with a sigh, she reminds herself under her breath: "Absolutely no more questions,"

The mouth of the cave is iced over, slippery, and the air is cuttingly freezing, but they venture on anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, finally getting into some thick plotttt. Finally, after like eight chapters of prologue, we’re finally getting somewhere. I have such big plans for this and I can’t wait to share it with you!
> 
> Any thoughts? Criticisms? Theories? Please feel free to leave a comment :)
> 
> I’ll try and get another update for like next week or perhaps the one after. Gonna try not to leave it for three (four????) months, aha.
> 
> Until next time x


	9. The Umber of Matin

Her lungs beg for breath, each wall of rose tissue burning as her she tries to desperately swallow the oxygen. Her eyes are tear-filled and her sight is blurry, causing the trees to meld together into a single, towering shadow, so endlessly towering above her. Her small, frail arms are covered in bumps and sangria patches, trembling just slightly as her tiny fingernails dig into her tiny palms. Her soles are far beyond the point of aching, each step she takes reminiscent of thousands of needles piercing through her skin. Her eyelids feel so, so heavy and her legs hurt so, so much.

But Sakura Haruno continues to walk, anyway.

Even despite the agony and the exhaustion that weigh down her weak feet, she presses on through the sunless forest aimlessly— well, not aimlessly. She has but one aim; she walks forward. She doesn't look back into the void behind her, doesn't dare to face the darkness that follows her, and walks through the trees with tiring, half-open eyes. She only looks towards her north, but suddenly, she's so dizzy and so confused, unsure of north, unsure of forward, unsure of herself. She wants to drop to the ground and never walk again.

But the fear is all-consuming.

"Are you lost?" A familiar voice asks.

She looks up from the indistinguishable leaves that litter the trunks of trees, and then, light dawns upon her cheeks. Weight leaves her body, gravity lessens to a point that she swears she's flying, the cold toasts her fingers to a comfortable warmth.

Blue is all that Sakura can see. Shades of delicate cerulean that meld into the prettiest, cloudless skies of summer, light and pastel and soft. Hues of vibrant hydrangea flowers that cascade into warm seas that are just a few sunbeams away from crystal clear. Tones of that royal colour that resides in those curtains hung up across extravagant castles, also found in lapis lazuli ores that are hidden far beneath the earth's skin, with pigments that simultaneously appear turquoise and indigo in just a simple shift of sunlight. Morbidly, even the bruised colour that lips turn after hypothermia sinks in, or that flesh pales to after the last drop of essence has been sucked out of its shell— she sees them all. Baby blues, found in morning skies and spring flowers. Cobalt blues, found in rich curtains and jewels. Navy blues, found in oceans and beneath the pallid skin of many, many people.

All she sees, at first, is blue. But every blue dangles under her eyelashes, every shade, and that is no small feat. All she sees is blue, but blue is all she's ever needed to see.

Those familiar, homely eyes of blue. That's all she's ever needed. That's all she'll ever need.

Sakura's heartbeat slows into a steady bass, the baritone drum of her organ almost boringly stable, and her eyes are awake and responsive, her lips upturned and her few teeth gleaming a pearly white. She welcomes the embrace of the foreigner, allowing stronger, bigger arms to entrap her tiny body. She melts into it, in fact. Short, pastel locks are gripped tightly by the stranger— who isn't really a stranger at all— and a small frame is held so tightly against the older girl's chest. Sakura thinks that the other is scared of her slipping through her fingers.

But she wasn't the one to slip away. Sakura has always remained constant— She's always lived, even when she hasn't wanted to. She's always walked her path and never faltered, really, never been led astray. She always came back to her mother, always, and she always returned home when she felt lost. Anchors kept her constant, kept her going back and returning home; she's never been the one to slip away. Death hasn't sunk his teeth into her, nor has illness plagued her body, nor has friendship ruined her heart. She's always had a constant— she's always been just as she is now.

And suddenly, she's sobbing, holding her big sister impossibly close. Her tiny fingers are gripping onto that warm back, embedding pink crescent moons in the flesh beside Hanako's spine. Her eyes are shut tightly, her lids tensing against one another as tears slip out from her waterline, allowing the world to fade into nothing but Hanako's warm, welcoming touch. When her tears have lessened, when her sight has cleared, she looks up at her sister with a smile, marvelling the ocean of blue that stares down at her.

But then, her heart stops.

Instead of freckles or blemishes or beauty marks, she sees perfectly clear skin. Instead of a slender nose or a small forehead or big, doe eyes, and instead of striking features and art-worthy beauty, she sees a face that she doesn't recognise at all. That wonderful blue is too many shades to be familiar, too vague and too vast to be her comfort; she doesn't recognise this woman.

This woman isn't her sister. She can't be. Her sister doesn't look like that. Her sister looks like—

Like—

Her sister looks like—

_Like what?_

She can't even remember.

She's forgotten the features that are supposed to rest on that face, forgotten the colours that Hanako's skin would turn when she got too cold, forgotten the beautiful shades her eyes would flicker to in certain lightings. She's forgotten the pitch her sister's voice would fluctuate to when she was angry, how her laugh might have echoed and the shape her lips would take when giggling that mischievous grin. Was it even mischievous? Did her irises gleam with a sly, knowing sneakiness when she plotted childish pranks? Sakura remembers the pranks. The jokes and the fact that they did laugh, too, as well as the pain that would reside in her cheeks from smiling from ear to ear for far too long. She remembers how safe and light she felt with her sister, how everything was so happy and free and easy.

So why can't she remember her sister? Why can't she remember what her sister looked like? Why can't she remember how her sister sounded?— laughed?— cried?— comforted?

Why can't she remember?

Her heart shudders with anguish, a numb, sickeningly tight sensation etching into her stomach. Suddenly, she's alone, and suddenly, the world falls away at her feet. At first, like a single droplet dripping to the ground, a single tree dissipates before her eyes, but, just as rainfall floods heavier over time, it's not long before everything has gone all together, all at once. She's floating into oblivion, aimless and weightless and anchorless.

And she's consumed with terror, with unfathomable amounts of fright, so vehement and toxic that it's all that she can feel. Fear. She has no ties, she has no destination— she's just gliding through, awaiting the time when her body finally drops from the abyss of space and ends her voyage.

Space.

Her eyes widen at the realisation; pockets of stars that once seemed so far away, so out of reach, glisten just before her lashes. Clusters of light reflect off from her skin, casting glows to ignite just beneath the layer of goosebumps, and without warning, she is completely alight. Rose strands are golden in some places, white in others, soft and gentle, but no longer reminiscent of springtime flowers and innocence. A peaceful serenity follows the lightened hues of her body, follows the warm sensation that is far too delicate to burn. She basks in the calmness for a moment.

But then, as quickly as the thought came, it disappears and reverts back to that empty ache in the pit of her gut, as if all her insides have fallen out from beneath her skin. That fear, that violent and unshakable fear, returns in a quick, rapid beat of her heart.

She's falling.

Falling— falling— falling so far out of reach that she can't even see her hands spread out before her eyes.

Sakura wakes up with a start, her torso scrambling upright in an instant. Stray beads of sweat litter her moistened forehead, each breath heavy and rapid as her hands come to rub at her sore eyes. In a second, dazed irises survey the maze of endless trees encircling their location, analysing each branch with a precise intricacy. It takes the woman a second to compose herself.

Her mind flickers back to the sensation of falling; Her mind flickers back to the sensation of floating; Her mind flickers back to stars and light and space; Her mind flickers back to Hanako and shades of blue and lost memories; Her mind flickers back to a terrified girl and aching feet and a dark, hauntingly familiar forest. Images flash before her eyes in a second, suddenly overwhelming all of her senses— but she isn't frightened. The her of her dream was petrified, and yet the fact that she cannot recall her own sister's face does little to entice a response out of her now. Her breathing is steady, her arms are strong and motionless, her pupils are dryer and reflective of nothing at all.

When her eyelids flutter open again, emerald hue firm and determined, she feels the icy wind bite at the flesh of her bare stomach. Her top— a simple, black, long-sleeved underlayer— had ridden up in her sleep, it seems, leaving goosebumps to perk up just beneath the thin coating of fabric on her arms. Her brown trousers remain loosely below her waist, resting limply on her hips, but they're so loose that she feels the breeze penetrating under every material on her body, freezing even her northern skin in a bitter frost. She shivers.

In a second, she's pulling down the onyx fabric and brushing a hand through her disheveled locks, scouring her location for some reasoning behind her predicament— why is she here, in the middle of the Great South-Eastern Forest, stripped down to her underlayers and completely alone? The woman's brain aches in thought, coming up as blank as the North's snowy terrain.

But then she hears a voice— an energetic, warm voice that bounces off from the trees as clearly as droplets of rain. Its vibrato echos around her, gliding into her eardrums and resonating with her very core as it laughs. It seems as if it's talking to itself, so overbearing but in a way that isn't quite unpleasant, although the woman knows better; if she could refine her senses just a little bit more, if she could hear the wind whisper secrets in the shells of ears, she might be able to hear Sasuke's low, raspy murmur in response to Naruto's bubbling exclamations. Instead, she just imagines up the other half of the conversation, creating a scenario befitting of their constantly bickering exchanges. She almost misses the light-hearted humility in the knight's aggressive chuckles, as she predicts the words that fall from the Prince's lips. She almost forgets that they're actually akin to brothers.

"No!" She just about hears Naruto bellow out with a laugh, the warmth in his tone radiating across her flesh. "That didn't happen! There's no way!"

Behind the trees, hidden away from her sight, the knight is grinning, his feet occasionally breaking a branch in his heavy-footed stride as he does so. Sasuke wears his own smirk, shaking his head in light disapproval at his best friend's antics, but he's obviously content. His friend's idiocy always amuses him, but it's the warm, enthusiastic cheers that never fail to pick up his spirits— not that the prince would ever breathe a word of that, though. His relationship with the Namikaze is very much between the lines, easily misinterpreted by others but clear as rain to the pair themselves.

"It is true," His low voice affirms pleasantly, causing the blond to smile even wider. "My mother was so angry that Itachi was forbidden from exiting the castle for the next three months. Shisui got off with a light slap on the wrist, though,"

Naruto's laugh is a loud bellow, coming from deep in his throat, almost resembling a cackle if not for its masculine rasp. "Ah, well, Lady Mikoto did have such a soft spot for Shisui back in the days. It's a shame he isn't around much anymore, he's so funny,"

A solemn line forms across the prince's face for a moment, dark irises dropping to the moist, twig-ridden dirt.

It's true, those times were the 'Halcyon Days' without a doubt, filled with childish mischief and unapologetic laughs and punishments as trivial as being grounded. He can't decide whether the world has grown harsher, or whether he's just grown less ignorant over time. Each day, the sun seems to rise a little later in the morning and set a little earlier in the evening, he thinks, as if the light grows more and more parsimonious every second longer that it witnesses the Earth— will there be a time when the sun will fall from the sky and leave the world in a state of tenebrosity? Or does it only appear like that's the direction everything seems to be heading in?

He hopes that he'll be able to revisit the dog days of his life as soon as possible, that he'll be able to reclaim his throne and just forget about all these inclement events. In fact, he'll return home as a trained, capable man more aware of the outside world than he has ever been before. He'll appreciate the good things and improve the bad, will listen to his brother and stand by his side as an equal, not as a rival or a nemesis. He'll take care of his mother, cook her meals and kindly give the kitchen staff an evening off when he does so, or he'll plant her an even more magnificent garden and pick her flowers and learn all their different meanings. He'll watch over the councilmen, will help his brother rule the country but will proudly observe Itachi's reign without any spite. He'll visit Naruto's mother's grave with him more, and he'll reach out to his more distant relatives and make bonds with them, and he'll meet a high-class, pretty lady and ask for her hand in marriage. He'll be a loving son, a kind brother, a good friend, an honest husband— he'll be everything he doesn't think he quite was the last time he was there. He'll do it all right, this time.

With a soft, almost indistinguishable smile, the Uchiha's eyes flicker back up from the ground to his best friend's face. "We will make sure that he is around much more when we return home, I promise. I am sure Itachi will be pleased, as will mother. They need as much family around them as possible, now,"

Naruto nods, but there's a sadness in his eyes. After a beat, he opens his mouth, with a blatant thoughtfulness, and slows his pace until he's stationary beside the prince. "But so do you, Sasuke, don't forget that," he mutters gently, soothingly, though not without hesitation, even going as far as to rest his palm flat against the other man's back. "You lost your father, too, and you haven't grieved once since you heard the news. That isn't good for you, you know,"

Surprisingly, the other man actually seems to acknowledge and respect every word without an ounce of disagreement. His expression is as stoic and calculated as usual, but the ice in the onyx of his eyes has melted, a considering tilt to his head and a lessening in the tight lines of his forehead apparent in further inspection. After a few seconds, his words are summoned with a firm, resolved nod. "I will grieve when I return home," He says simply, resolutely. "I cannot be Sasuke Uchiha, now, remember. I am Itachi, a forgettable civilian of Mangekyou who was saved by a knight,"

Naruto doesn't respond to that. He wants to; he wants to, more than anything, evoke the emotions he knows Sasuke needs to feel from deep within the prince. He wants to scream that melding into this facade will only hurt the Uchiha more, that grief shouldn't be held off and allowed to accumulate behind closed doors, that returning home isn't some inevitable truth of the world, but the words dry in his mouth. Instead, he tightly upturns chapped, cracked lips into the best smile that he can muster.

He changes the subject to distract, or at least to divert, the hollowing sensation in his chest. Sakura catches the end of their conversation as they walk into the small circle of treeless ground from between two of the coniferous completely surrounding her. A blond head of hair his turned partially away from her, the knight's back twisted to address the other.

"— so weird, don't you think?" His voice is animated, filled with genuine perplexity and character. He's so vibrant, she repeatedly finds herself whispering to the air, so strong and  _present_. His very existence demands attention. "Like, we'd never do that back at home! The Northerners are crazy, I'm telling you, I just don't  _understand_  it," His exasperation quirks up the corners of her mouth.

Sakura takes no offence in being regarded as a  _crazy Northerner_ , for she thinks it's quite an accurate assessment. Compared to the fundamental hierarchies and social foundations of Mangekyou, with its particular set of cultural expectations and belief systems, the North is a blatant antithesis— well, sans for the same moral corruption, she supposes. Mangekyou derives upon ancient tradition and vanity and complementarianism, the capital of the world, civilised and sophisticated in matters that are considered irrelevant in the North. Mangekyians learn different types of dessert spoons and how to fold a fan properly, whilst Northerners learn different types of daggers and how to dispose of an enemy quickly; the North splits into extremes and the standard, the Mist being very much an extreme, but the standard is not far from it. Northerners are rougher, accustomed to severe weather and hunting prey when they have to, whilst Mangekyians live in consistency and superficiality.

"Are we?" She asks, cutting into the conversation, a slight teasing smugness to her tone. There's definitely humour in the soft chuckle of her voice, too, and Naruto seems to forget about being caught mid-gossip in its wake. He adores her soft smirks of amusement.

Sasuke snorts in second-hand embarrassment beside him, but it's arrogant and entertained rather than pitying. Typical of the prince.

"I—" Naruto struggles for a moment, the cogs in his brain turning for a plausible excuse, but his mouth only remains limply apart. The single syllable hangs in the air for a while, a while that the woman doesn't feel the urge to disrupt, before the knight is exhaling sharply and gathering himself. "I'm generalising and that's not okay, is it? Forgive me, I meant no disrespect to your people,"

At first, Sakura is at loss for words in response, a slightly agape shape to her pink lips. Then, her mouth twists up into a genuine bellow of a laugh, taking the blond by surprise, allowing it to ripple through the air. "I can't say I care," She remarks honestly, a light-hearted breathiness in her throat. "There's not a patriotic bone in my body. That whole knighthood thing?" Her hands wave in the air to gesture to everything he is. "Astounds me that you'd even want to devote yourself to your country. Is it a nationalist thing? You like the glory? The thrill?"

More than invested enough in conversing with her, Naruto steps forward, sitting down to reach her eye level. Every day, he seems to get closer and closer to her, striking up more and more discussions, even coming as far as her initiating the talks sometimes. He could genuinely listen to her go on for hours on end— she has a beautifully soothing voice, and a mouth that he loves watching form the syllables of his name. This woman is god-sent. In complete contrast, Sasuke leans back against a tree, arms crossed and his eyes drifting off to somewhere Naruto could never reach, he suspects. He couldn't care less about the Northerner or her trivial inquisitions— she's far more interesting and likeable when she doesn't open her mouth.

Over the two weeks that they've been travelling to Sejimura, the two weeks since their breakthrough at the cave, the prince and the stranger have conversed four times— all of which have been strongly opinionated arguments clashing, leading to even further dislike and tension. Now, he doesn't even bother in voicing his distaste, just glares at her as she undoubtedly does something he disapproves of or doesn't understand to begin with, sometimes even just tuning out her voice to reflect on how much he truly misses home. Most of the time, he treats his best friend the exact same, too; he's never been the conversationalist, that's certainly the case, but now, he doesn't even have the energy or desire to grunt out disapproval. Instead, he either watches wordlessly or disappears to the world of thoughts inside his own head.

Within the last week, he's had another focus, anyway— he and his best friend have been sparring, pushing their bodies to limits and training in the evenings. When Hanako decides to call it a night, to close her eyes and drift off into her dreams, they sneak away and practise. Sasuke's always liked fighting; it makes him feel in control and powerful, like even his own bruises are there because he willed it so. In many ways, he finds it liberating. He loves the sensation of feeling his fist smack against skin, of feeling his knuckles press against the bone beneath flesh, of feeling a force push back against his own hit. It makes him forget everything, just for a moment. In every way, he finds it liberating.

"Uh— no, not for the thrill," Naruto answers honestly, a flustered hue to his tan. "I mean, it's certainly thrilling, that's true, but it isn't about  _that_. It's about helping people, saving people, looking after my home— you know how it is,"

She smiles. "Yeah," Her eyes are downcast, as if reflecting on something. "Yeah, I suppose I do. Everyone has someone they want to protect, even if that someone is long gone,"

Naruto seems to notice the insensitivity of his words, visibly choking up on a retort, but the woman remains unaffected. In fact, her lips even stretch a little further, her smile now a little wider, as she begins to lift herself up. "Sejimura is a few days away. If we leave now, we should be at a small village by nightfall, if I remember the path correctly," She affirms, pointedly glaring at the Uchiha as if to dare him to ignore her more. He doesn't, even doing as far as to flicker his eyes up at her in defiance of her challenge. "It's a safe zone. No one will harm us there, but it goes without saying that we leave the whole knighthood thing under wraps. No mention of Mangekyou from this point on, is that clear?"

Their silence is as close to submission as she's going to get, she realises, sighing as she quickly attempts to gather her bag together. They follow suit without encouragement, repeating the same pattern they've carried out every day since the group left the Mist— blankets stuffed in bags, cloaks wrapped around their bodies and bags thrown over shoulders. Within minutes, they're standing, awaiting the journey's commencement. Sakura almost laughs aloud at their stern expressions, thinking the hard lines look odd on Naruto's chubbier face, but she does nothing to voice her amusement. Instead, she turns on her heel and begins to walk into the forest.

It's a forest like any other, really; tall trees cast dark shadows and partially conceal the sun, the air beneath their leaves heavier and harder to breathe in. The ground consists of varied textures of mud, some parts wetter than others, but some so solid that it hurts Sakura's feet to walk across them. Moistened dirt is tawny, dry dirt is nearing beige, and everything in between is everything in between tawny and nearing beige. Even the stray sticks, which Naruto seems to have a habit of using as stepping stones, obey the same spectrum, so identical in colour to the ground that they blend in. A few stray patches of weed and grass litters some areas of the wood, but those are rare and hid well beneath the shadows. The overwhelming scent of bark reaches her sinuses.

"You said it would take four days, it has been over two weeks," The prince reprimands lowly, following behind the blond. Obviously, the stranger leads.

Sakura doesn't even bother to resist the urge to roll her eyes anymore, although it does nothing to entice a reaction from him as he can't even see her face, but she feels the satisfaction quaking in her own bones. Not feeling the urge to educate him, the woman simply continues in her own stride, ignoring his dark eyes fixating on the small of her back. Evidently, that doesn't halt his starving curiosity in the slightest.

"We have been travelling together for over two weeks since leaving the Mist," He reaffirms, louder but still relatively deep in tone. "That is at least ten days more than you first instructed it to be,"

Sakura wants to groan aloud desperately, but she doesn't. With more of a bite to her words than she'd like to admit, she hisses out a "No," through seething teeth, although she doesn't bother to decelerate. "I said it would be four days on horseback, not accounting for sleep. We don't have enough horses for one of us to ride, let alone all three— I thought that was obvious,"

At the blatant slight, the prince's blood boils. Never has a person dared to insult him so unabashedly! Granted, he suppose that the woman is ignorant to his status, but still! His stature speaks for itself, a clear sign of his aristocratic upbringing, and yet she narrows her eyes at him, not even turning to face him in conversation. He has never felt so brushed aside in his life, even in Itachi's shadow! He despises the woman for it. He should be respected. He shouldn't be a mere inconvenience, nor Naruto's little tag-along who she ignores in discussion. He is a prince! The  _Prince_ , of Mangekyou of all places!

"Tch, 'I thought that was obvious'," he mocks under his breath and, if the woman hears, she doesn't show it.

**~ x Of Crimson Days x ~**

Shikamaru Nara is a man that notices patterns— sets of three, pathetic fallacy, overarching themes, underlying messages, character traits… anything, really. Keen, sharp eyes winnow the world through strategic formulae, crafted within the brilliant cauldron of his renowned mind. Like a blacksmith knows his ironmongery, the man understands the inner workings of everything; he instantly discerns the crooked aristocrats at galas, immediately picks out the councilmen with aces hidden up their sleeves at meetings, sees through even the unforeseeable. Sure, he's without a doubt 'intelligent' but his real wit lies beneath his ability to distinguish patterns.

And so, on this fine October morning, he hears the question long before it's asked.

Hinata Hyuuga had been the woman of her reputation when she'd greeted him just hours ago— she'd been sharp, cuttingly so, and so calm that it almost sent a wave of fear through his bones. Elegance protruding from her in a similar manner to breaths of carbon dioxide, she sat with a sly composure before him, watching him, observing him. When her lips parted in question, in words no doubt coated with ulterior motive and scheme, her voice had been monotoned and easy, like she knew exactly how this conversation was going to play out. In fact, there had been an omniscient gleam beneath her eyelashes, one that made the genius second-guess the triviality of their trivial Smalltalk; what had she been getting out of it? Had she been gauging him, laying him down and inspecting the cells of his skin through microscopic eyes, tearing him apart and infecting his head with doubt and confusion? Had she entered his head, crawled in through the gap of his lips, through the holes that beads of sweat fell from?

Hours before her visit, he'd woken up to a smaller bed, to heat and flesh crowding him, as the sun seeped through cracks in the boysenberry curtains. Soft, yet somehow unbearably bright, light danced across his eyelashes, casting shadows on the sangria of his face as he repeatedly opened and shut his eyes. It took a while to familiarise himself with the colours around him, to ground himself back to his reality, but eventually, his eyes opened definitively, wide and accepting. Then, he'd followed his routine; he'd brushed a pale arm off his waist, peeled off the duvet from his bare, moist skin, slipped on a pair of cotton underwear and had gotten ready to take on the world— or, well, blend in with it in perfect harmony, anyway.

Although food was certainly not scarce, he kept his stomach (and his appetite, admittedly) scarce of food, chugging down a glass of colourless liquid to ease the drum of his temples. His throat was rough, his voice hoarse and his mouth dry, but he simply licked his lips as he stared at his shirtless body in the mirror. Harsh, angry marks painted his flesh, crescent moons indented into his shoulder blades and, if he had turned and glanced at his back, he would've been sure to find all sorts of reddened shapes and bruises across it. When his eyes drifted to the woman in his bed, with long hair that looked white with the sun peaking in, he felt an audible groan escape his lips without consent. He'd found his way to Mangekyou again, but this time, the ring on his finger is a lonely shade of gold in the light, only a reminder and sans of another to clink itself against when fingers interlocked. It made his gut churn uncomfortably.

Deciding it a waste of his time to just sit and stare at the naked, but vividly marked, back of his mistress, he left his accommodation at the sun's brightest. And yet, even though Helios had been particularly generous this day, the world seemed to grey the second he walked out of that mahogany door. Stands were void of merchants, but plentiful of ripped fabrics diluted of vibrancy, fruits decayed or dropped to the ground, antiques shattered or just simply left forgotten. There were three other citizens on the street; one of which lay on the street as if it offered him all the warmth of the world, clinging to one scrawny, well-endeavoured blanket as if it were his lifetime. His complexion had been lightened, sunken in so that his bones were almost indistinguishable to his skin, his cheeks hallowed out and his eyes reddened. When Shikamaru met this man's gaze, the nobleman couldn't help but to avert his irises in shame, but threw a single gold coin from his pocket to the stranger in passing, anyway. He nodded in acknowledgement to the older man, whose eyes seemed to light up at the gift.

It was but a single coin, and yet the stranger acted as if Shikamaru had morphed into a djinn from deep within the pages of the stories told to village children, granting his utmost wish. Ever since the Massacre, the streets have been growing surplus at night, and yet few people have left the confines of their homes out of free will— men were slaughtered, women rounded up, children thrown into labour. The rich are now the poor, the poor are now the dying, the dying are now the liberated. It disgusts the genius, in honesty, watching stable, dignified people crumble into corpses before his own stare. Given the choice, he'd return home, to the land in the Byakuugan Kingdom that he owns, to the woman in the Byakuugan Kingdom that he owns. Given the choice, he'd never even fucking reflect on his time in this cursed city ever again.

But he'd been summoned.

And like a dog, he answered to his call.

"Now, do tell, Shikamaru of the Nara, Baron of Byakuugan and close adviser to Hiruzen Saratobi, why did you enter Mangekyou in September of this year?" Voice like silk, lavender eyes had looked down upon him from Fugaku's throne. The said male thought it looked far better suited to her than Fugaku's forced posture, far better suited to her naturally perfect composure and sly, king-like eyes.

But he thought a woman in power was far too controversial for the small-minded men of this clime. Mangekyou liked tradition. One royal family, one very male monarch, one disgusted glance to anyone different. People with even a slight tawny streak across their skin were considered failed works of art, as if a brush had accidently stroked a canvass with thick, brown poison. People with less money were considered canvasses without any paint at all, empty and boring and worthless to gaze at, but mass-produced and continuously expanding in number. Mangekyou liked a very specific layout to the world, with specific people and specific ideas only.

Shikamaru detested Mangekyou.

His eyes had landed on the tanned skin of the soldier beside the Wicked Woman, contrasting beautifully to the gleam of the woman's compulsory metal chest plate, and he almost applauded the Mangekyian Uprising— but  _Almost_ and  _Actually_  are very different worlds apart. In many ways, he himself is a sinner, sleeping in a sinner's bed with a sinner's whore in a sinner's city, but his hands are clean of blood. He hadn't struck anyone with a blade, nor will he ever, as the clean-cut, well-educated man he is now… regardless of the fact that there is a before to every now. To him, there isn't. To him, his before was once not himself.

That's a thing, he thinks. Compartmentalisation is crucial to sanity, one hundred percent. Compartmentalisation distinguishes torturing feelings and feelings of wanting to torture apart, stopping them from melding together and halting him from actually acting on them. It allows him to spilt everything up into small, digestible pieces. It allows him pockets of air in the deep, deep, suffocating ocean of his mind. He keeps separate his intelligence and his malevolence, ensuring his spite never has enough fuel to grow out of control. He keeps separate his common sense and his faith, for common sense seems to pale out hope at a catastrophic rate. He keeps separate his present and his past, obsessively so, to an extent that he recalls on fact far more than sentimental memory or nostalgia.

He is a man of science, a man of logic. He understands the Hamartia, feels it in the marrow of his own bones every day, and he likes to believe he has a good grasp on it. Human flaw is weak in him, he'd even argue, although he'd certainly be wrong… but he doesn't dwell it. If it's out of sight, it's out of mind. If it's out of mind, he believes it shouldn't have any gravity on a person's life. On his life.

With a sigh, he'd tore away his gaze from the tawny woman, up to the awaiting stare of the Wicked Woman and ran a series of answers through his brain. He thinks honesty is circumstantial, anyway, and that the Truth is certainly not everyone's truth. Bending his words around his tongue to fit this circumstance isn't necessarily a lie... just, maybe not his truth. With that, rough, dry lips part in retort. "I arrived on business," He''d answered the woman's question to the best of his willing. "Byakuugan has a specific market for specific things, you see, whilst Mangekyou is more- well,  _flexible_ , I suppose,"

Painted lips twitched upwards with maniacal laugh. "Flexible?" The Wicked Woman contained a visible shade of lavender interest in her eyes, slender fingers combing through her hair as an invitation to continue on. Despite this invitation, she continued herself. "Mangekyou's market is as a flexible as a corpse,"

Oh, what an ironical woman, indeed.

"Yes, well, that corpse-like inflexibility came about after Mangekyou's market was literally slaughtered, as I am sure you are aware," He told her easily, stepping forward to engage further. Like a mere merchant, he had advertised his product. "Prior to it, this was the leading capital of the world, especially for trade,"

The woman had cutting eyes, but her voice had been sharper than a blade. "Are you accusing me of something?" She'd asked, leaning forward.

"With all do respect, Lady Hyuuga, it is more than blatant that you are not the puppeteer of this show.," He answered truthfully, stepping further up the staircase, deep eyes tracing the intricate patterns chiselled onto the marble floor. "You listen nicely, deceptively even, but my accusation does not lie with you,"

Her eyes traced the stationary guards behind him with an unreadable stare, as if she were calculating their very measurements through the lilac tunics befitted over their silver armour, before she had raised her eyes once more to Shikamaru." I could kill you," She had stated, a vicious yet composed intensity hidden behind long, extravagant lashes. She watched his pale fingers fold over one another as he squeezed together his palms, halting in his stride upwards.

After a thoughtful while, clearly, he unclasped his hands, allowing his digits to gently slip from each other, before he was gazing up at her with a foreign determination. "I am certain you could, but you will not,"

At that, her back straightened up even more, her shoulders coming forward with the tilt of her head; strands of gorgeous hair seeped into her lap at the movement, in a manner that was uncharacteristically angelic. "And what makes you so sure of that?" Her tone was almost toxic, he remembers thinking, each syllable laced with a deadly poison, but even at that, he didn't waver. In fact, he held his head high, feeling the hair down his back now on his neck as he noticed the fact his ponytail had long come undone. If she had bothered to acknowledge the seeping locks of onyx, she did nothing to show it.

"Patterns, mostly," He had answered easily, his voice smooth and confident. "Patterns far beyond your own understanding," The baron had not meant it in offence, and she had seemingly understood that fact well. "For one, here I stand, unharmed," He'd gestured to himself, as if daring her to prove him wrong.

"Because I allow it so," There was that cutting bite, again, all defensive and guarded and so, so predictable. "But that is not to imply that I will not change my mind, Shikamaru Nara of Byakuugan," He'd foreshadowed those words himself. She was certainly sly, a woman of the highest tier, one out for his heart even, but she was not within the realm of unpredictability. It was about patterns, truly, about saying one thing and doing another.

Shikamaru of Byakuugan, huh? But although he was a valued member of their system, he had never once found himself identifying with it. Byakuugan may not be Mangekyou, but it's fucked up all the same, in its own right.

"I swear my allegiance past the mountains," He told her, truthfully.

"Ah yes, so I recall," Hinata had laughed gently, mockingly so. "You married a dessert princess and domesticated her to this life— to your life. The life where you lie in bed with a prostitute, the life where you run far from your truth, the life where you live a complete lie. You are a black sheep, after all, a rogue of wanderlust,"

His eyebrows shot up. "You looked into me,"

_Lies. He was a cauldron brewing with lies. So many lies._

And yet, she played along with his lies with an admirable loyalty, never once calling him out on his bluff until he had done so himself. She's sly and conniving and a master of deceit, but she has never been unnecessarily cruel. "It is as you say, I am not the puppeteer of this show," As if the words she said were a faucet of some light-heartedly jest, she comically shrugged her shoulders. "I simply listen, deceptively so,"

"Who is orchestrating this? Is it really the Hyuuga?" Patterns tell a lot, but what tells the most is the breaking of a pattern. At his words, her practiced smile faltered minutely, but just enough for it to be a blaring signal. "You are unaware yourself,"

"You-" She hesitated for the first time, cogs in her brain relentlessly twisting, allowing that syllable to have hung in the air of a while too long to be characteristic. "You are thinking too small, I believe. I do not know where the Hyuuga begin control and end control, but somewhere, there is a line, there is another power, where my family lies with strings attached to their bodies,"

A silence had befallen the room at that, a heavy atmosphere lingering in the air. She had wanted him to help her, he sees now, to pick apart the secrets even she didn't know.

"You are not the puppeteer of this show, huh," He reiterated after a beat.

She had allowed him a second to contemplate the gravity of his own words, before exhaling a deep breath. "I suppose you are wondering why I summoned you, for that move was made of my own accord, I can ensure you," Her voice had grown more approachable, as if she wasn't towering above him on a throne, her lavender irises appearing more humane in the dim light of the room.

"I am wondering more why you have shared this with me,"

Her eyes sparked up, her mischievous gleam galvanising back into her sclera as if she'd unveiled everything the world had to offer. "You have too much to lose to be a threat," She'd said, licking her lips in a distasteful manner. "It is arming you with tight lips,"

"You trust me," The nobleman summarised, not quite believing it himself.

How typical of Shikamaru to jump to such conclusions, Hinata had thought, so like the Saratobi who had raised him. Geniuses are supposed to be realists, her mind had chorused, not optimists with childish ideologies of trust and friendship It made her doubt his reliability, in honesty, made her question whether he was worth the investment or not..

"I trust your fear," The Wicked Woman affirmed as wickedly as her epithet, "But alas, the point of this story—I discovered a very important secrect of yours,"

"Is that so?" He doubted it. Very few know of his past.. and well, maybe Hinata is one of them, but he was keen on repressing it and playing this game of his. He'd pretend for as long as she would.

"I have reason to believe, Shikamaru Nara, that you are still in contact with your group of rogues,"

Rogues she knows too well of, apparently.

Shikamaru felt himself sigh before he realised he wanted to, closing his eyelids tightly as if it would somehow make the whole world disappear with it. Time to face the music, he'd reluctantly understood, time to look at Hinata as Hinata, and not the Wicked Woman he'd been so quickly forced into calling her. If anyone is wicked, it's him.

"My group, or one particular member?" He'd asked knowingly, crossing his arms over one another in his stationary position.

Hinata hadn't bypassed the question, really, just thought it a better use of time had she just got on with it. "I believe she holds many answers," The woman explained as she offered a tight-lipped smile, still staring down at him as if he was nothing. Or perhaps not nothing, but an insect.

He wasn't sure what was quite the superior option, instead opting to allow his mind to reminisce the events of last month— to reminisce Sakura's pallid cheeks, rapid tears, sangria lids, thin flesh, dead eyes. He remembered so vividly her begging, her desire to be laid down upon her deathbed and to disappear into the void. Even now, he thinks that her image— her broken, battered form before his eyes— will never be erased from his mind. The vision sometimes comes in flashes, playing through his head over and over again, as if stuck on a loop, always with erupting a wave of nausea-inducing guilt throughout his gut.

"She is dead," he had said, mouth dry and a bitter taste gagging at the back of his throat. The words were definitive, indisputably headstrong and leaving never little air to disagree, but they felt like rocks stuck in the back of his larynx, unwilling to fall out from his mouth.

For some reason, Hinata remained exactly as she had been, her patten unbreakable and her eyes firm. "Death-kissed, perhaps, but certainly not dead," There was almost a light-heartedness to her tone as she spoke, one so jovial that he wanted to slap it right off her pale face. "She is too much of a coward to die. She would never allow herself to face the gates of hell,"

He feels his blood boil just thinking about it— he felt his veins constrict with palpable anger, then, too. The Wicked Woman, Hinata or not, has no right to dirty the name of his saviour.

"She is brave," He was firmer in that than anything he had ever uttered or spoken or shouted before, his voice so resolute and determined that even Hinata was almost swayed by it.

"She is many things," The woman had conceded, and although there was an upturn with her words, she sounded anything but kind. "I remember that vibrantly, and as does the Puppeteer of this grand scheme. She is a piece that will be put into play eventually, it is just a matter of time,"

"Sakura is dead," Shikaruma had reaffirmed. "I watched the life drain from her eyes myself,"

And he had— he had seen the will and essence and drive drain from her as if it had been bled out of her veins. Green had seemed black, pale had been white, and so goes the rest of it. He hadn't attempted to reach out across the table and offer her an anchor, hadn't begged her to arrive at another conclusion until his voice grew silenced by pain, for he'd felt it in that very room that it was futile. She had already died, as far as he'd been concerned. Forcing her to gasp in breaths through cracked ribs and burnt lungs would have only been cruel. She had already died.

And yet, the woman before him had been unable to accept that, her irises lifting up to the marble ceiling in boredom and annoyance. Boredom that dissipated after she seemed to really break apart his words, although the annoyance seemed an eternal faucet of her being.

"In September, yes?" She had drawled, eyelids tightening around her lavender orbs like a cat eyeing a mouse. She contains a brilliant mind, a manipulative yet open mind that enables her to tear into people as a savage wolf, a starving lion, an omniscient queen. She's ruthless, truly, wise beyond books and tutors and lessons, wise of people and characteristics and this very country. Hinata Hyuuga is terrifying to Shikamaru, honestly, but in person, he had felt his stomach harden and his lungs steady.

He had done nothing to resist the urge of rolling his eyes, in fact welcoming it quite easily. "Nice try, but my lips are indeed tight," He said evenly, almost light-heartedly, a mocking scold beneath his tongue.

"I will make a deal with you if you tell me of her location," Hinata countered and, whilst the offering had been tempting— honestly, it hadn't at all— he felt his eyelashes brushing up against his browbone before he could help it.

He isn't a materialist, by no means! Sure, he's rich and economical and admittedly tight-fisted, but there isn't a covetous bone in his body; he just was born in a world where rich and economical imply greed and misanthropy. He isn't selfish, he just believes strongly in self-preservation.

But that meant little to him in that moment, for no deal she made would've swayed him in the slightest. "You have nothing on me," He'd reinforced verbally.

"Ah, but I beg to differ," She'd laughed, that maniacal gleam returning once more. "But do you know who differs even more?" There was that tone again; that gut-wrenching sarcasm that raised the hair on his neck and had his nails digging into his own clammy palms. He couldn't do anything but hear the world fill with a ringing, his eyes clouding and his heart suddenly in a rapid syncopation with the uneven inhalations of his lungs. "Chouji Akamichi and Sakura Haruno," Their names were blasphemous, really, satanic to his perfect, built-up heaven. They bit into his skin with an insatiable hunger, their fingernails embedding themselves into his organs and forcing poison down his throat. Their names were murderous.

She had everything on him. She has, currently, everything on him.

He didn't even hear himself speak, but he knows he did through the hazy image of her lips twisting. "You— You are sans of their location," He'd barely gasped out, attempting with the utmost conviction to stable himself.

"But I know what it is that they know,' She'd easily deflected, gliding her fingernails through the locks of her mane without a second glance at his agape face, but when she twirled a strand over her index finger, her eyes flickered to his in the most terrifying manner. "I know what it is that you fear," She'd enunciated sadistically, as if she knew the torment it caused him and revelled in it— basked in it, as if his suffering was a sweet, delicious nectar. Those pastel lips parted hyperbolically, their shape plump and cruel, a horrifying cackle accompanying her vicious syllables.

Shikamaru composed himself far quicker than anyone in that room could've anticipated, himself included. "I fear Sakura far more than what you may know," He'd stated truthfully, reverting to that same steady drum of his words. "She would have me killed,"

Even the Nara wasn't able to discern the way the Wicked Woman's hands froze in her hair, for that single millisecond, that gleam drowning in the violet of her irises. Even the Nara remained ignorant to the shift in the air, to the way her breaths suddenly seemed far less controlled and far more mortal. Whether that was due to his instability or to her own perfect composure, no one would ever know, but she felt it. She felt the way she instantly became another piece on the board, and not the omnipotent spectator whispering into the Puppeteer's ear.

"Well, that is certainly contradictory to the fact that she may be dead," She gave nothing else away, she made sure of it. Her throat remained equally tight and loose, a harmonious balance, and her movements were as egalitarian in spontaneity as they were in practiced precision. She gave nothing away.

Shikamaru felt himself warm at the thought of Sakura. "She would drag me to hell," He all but whispered, really, eyes drifting to floor in a nostalgic manner.

"You are already going to hell, Shikamaru, even you know that," The Wicked Woman quipped, growing impatient.

"I will not betray her," He countered immediately.

"Again, allow me to remind you that I can kill you," She retorted at the same pace, her impatience more evident now.

At that, the nobleman paused, but not in fear. He had come to another theory concerning this woman— a conspiracy, really— but he felt reluctant in exposing it. "You are a much better person than you let on," His reluctance blatantly withered in that moment as their gazes met again, his shoulders broadening and his spine straightening up.

"Your evidence?" She demanded, without missing a beat, as a snort uncharacteristically inelegant for a woman of her stature and grace.

"That soldier," He decided he'd humour her, and so he gestured towards the female he'd previously made note of. "She is a woman, a woman with darkened skin, and yet she stands beside you as a protector,"

The mentioned solider remained as stationary and poised as before, conceding no inclination of her disposition at his abrupt announcement, her arms impressively still beside her. Even her eyes refused to blink, staring into the same distance she had been seconds and minutes and hours prior to his arrival, as if his relevance was so minute that it did little to galvanise her. On the other hand, he was sure that, had he stepped forward anymore, a blade would be at his neck within the span of a single heartbeat— if not sooner. She was everything a Knight of the Crimson Guard aimed to be, admittedly, and yet he'd never even seen the Paladin so committed to partaking in such diligence and stealth.

Hinata thought having a black woman beside her was no different to having a white man, honestly, but she thought there was a difference in this particular woman and everyone else. This particular woman was an astounding member of Hinata's private guard, a shadow when needed and a powerful warrior when required. She didn't dwell on it, though, that fact was blatant enough in her eyes.

"The rebel leader herself speaks to a woman's strength," She'd argued instead, not even bothering to comment in depth on his statement.

"Sakura was not a rebel," The passionate words escaped the man's throat before his filter sprang into action, his body suddenly growing so rigid and crimson. His stare was hot and challenging, his fists were clenched and firm, his teeth was scowling and barred. "She was just a victim willing to stand up for us,"

And then it hit the Wicked Woman. She understood. Her aforementioned shock was now an epiphany, her gleam a stable resident of her eyes once again, because she understood. It all made such perfect, wonderful sense, truly.

"You are fond of her," She articulated her thoughts with a conceit that was not missed by the man, "When you say she will kill you, you do not mean that she will slice your gut with a blade, but that your guilt will rip your heart out of your own chest," She felt beyond jovial, she felt overjoyed. She was truly brilliant! "You are in love with her,"

The aristocract shook his head, but not fervently. "I owed her. She saved my life,"

"And did you repay her?" Hinata was intrigued, to say the least.

To insinuate that he hadn't! It made the man furious! "Of course I did!" Shikamaru was outraged that she'd think otherwise. "I got her away from here, away from you. She can finally go home and put herself to the rest that she deserves,"

Oh, she was truly brilliant, indeed. Even the Genius had been so tangled up in her schemes enough to expose it all, hadn't he? It was Pride— the Great Hamartia. The Achille's Heel of humanity. Smart people try to avoid it, to remain blasé to ego, but the smarter one is, the larger their pride. It's fact. A fact that Shikamura had walked right into, honestly. This was far too easily for a woman of her skill— what a waste!

"Home?" She'd prompted, innocently… or well, not innocently in the slightest.

The widening of his sclera spoke volumes. "Figuratively!" He amended too quickly.

For the first time in that meeting, the Wicked Woman was on her feet. "She went home, huh?" She'd said more to herself than anyone, really, as her fingers wrapped around the cup of a golden goblet. It had been sitting on a tray of similar colour, held lifelessly by a woman who had been so still that Shikamaru thought her a statue. "Why, that makes so much sense. She returned North,"

"No, that was not what I implied," Shikamaru tried again, but still too frantic to be convincing to anyone, let alone her.

"But it makes perfect sense," There was that belittling patronisation, right on cue. It made his blood boil. "She returned to the place it all began—The North. Sejimura. The Mist. That little farm. Orochimaru's castle. The Liberation Garden. So many options, really, but her home makes the most sense. Like a moth to a flame, she returned home to that little cottage,"

There was little he could have denied from that point on, and so he opted for the next best thing: answers. "What do you want from her?" He inquired with more of an aggression than a gentle curiosity.

But she was bored of his, of his evasion and his slip-ups and his questions. Ugh, so many question, honestly, it made her mind numb with malaise. She would have rather been quartered and shipped off to her father's enemies than remain in his company.

With that, it was decided. "You may leave now, you have given me all that I desired," Hinata was court, harsh almost, but kind in comparison to the torture she was actually plotting.

But he continued! Like a lovesick mut, his bark continued to whimper for his lost little rebel. Genuinely, where was the guillotine when she needed one? For herself more than him. "Sakura is just a rogue, you said so yourself. Why would you want her?" His voice cried out.

"I do not want anything but to please the Puppeteer," Her body found itself in her throne again, her eyes disinterested on his form as she began eyeing the tray of Mangekyian cuisine. She missed home in that moment, truthfully, for food tastes so bland here… but, among other reasons, too. She's Wicked, without a doubt, but that doesn't mean that she isn't nostalgic.

"What? What do you-"

"You may leave," She interjected, wanting this charade to halt that instant.

"I shall not, not without-"

"Guards, escort this gentleman out,"

As if she'd breathed life into their lips, the four stationed in the room suddenly resuscitated, caging him in. Two were at his back, one man's stomach pressed powerfully against his back, and the other two one either side of him. He felt himself being pushed and pulled back, disarmed and weak against these soldiers, but he tried so profusely to keep his feet grounded.

He needed answers, for fuck sake!

"Hinata-" He tried again.

"Oh, are you going to stop pretending you do not remember our connection?" The words sent him years back. They made his heart stop for a fraction of a second, made his lashing arms slack in the grip of one particularly large man. "Well, it is much too late. Leave," Hinata couldn't bear to look him in the eye.

"Hinata, please, do not hurt he-"

"Guards, take him away," She insisted, hating the way her name rolled off his tongue.

"Hinata!" Shikamaru all but screamed, his voice resonating in her gut. It echoed off the walls, off the marble surrounding them, and replayed over and over again through her ears. She hated it. It made nausea crawl around in her stomach, swishing backwards and forwards like a boat. She hated it. There was a desperation in his eyes that made her regret looking back at him, a desperation that squeezed her heart and punched her throat. She hated it.

"Guards!"

She wanted him gone. She wanted him gone. She wanted him gone.

"Hinata!"

As his body was dragged out of the doors, she felt her lips move, but they came from another person. She wasn't like that anymore. She was a Hyuuga princess and he was some nobleman of the Nara family.

But she uttered the words nonetheless. "Farewell, Shika," Her voice was so soft, so inaudible. "I sincerely wish you the best,"

"Hinata!" The man, who now is just a nobleman of the Nara family, had screamed at the Wicked Woman as his body was kicked onto the marble steps of the Uchiha Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And breathe. Wow that last scene literally placed my casket in the ground. Like jesus, I feel like I just ran a marathon bc ugh, that dialogue went on and on and on and on and on and on and on and- you totally get the idea. 
> 
> Until next time, my lovelies xoxo


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